


Marvels! Presents The Iron Man in: The Case of the Stolen Elixir

by teaberryblue



Category: Iron Man (Comic), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 3490, Marvel Noir
Genre: 1939 World's Fair, 890fifth, Action, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Broken Bones, Earth-3490, Extremis, F/M, Fainting, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Impalement, Iron Man 1, Iron Man Noir - Freeform, Marvel Noir - Freeform, Physical Trauma, Romance, Stabbing, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3448628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaberryblue/pseuds/teaberryblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is on a mission with the famed Iron Man of legend & lore to retrieve a list of ingredients purported to create the Elixir of Life, for their employer, the eccentric and ailing scientist, Annie Stark.  </p><p>But when their dirigible is set-upon by a firebreathing Nazi, things take a turn for the worst, and connect the two to a figure from Annie's past...</p><p>Featuring the Futuristic Land of Tomorrow, killer robots, mechanical hearts, magic potions, thrilling rides and attractions, indestructible tomatoes, and an exciting girlie show approved by Good Housekeeping Magazine! </p><p> </p><p>  <i>A combination of Iron Man Noir and Marvel Earth-3490, with a liberal dash of the first Iron Man film and the 616 Extremis arc.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Marvels! Presents The Iron Man in: The Case of the Stolen Elixir

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [of superheroes & swan kings: a rousing tale of action and adventure as only marvels can deliver!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127490) by [thyrza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thyrza/pseuds/thyrza). 



> Many thanks to TheLiterator, greenjudy and GreyPrince for copious and quick beta reading! <3
> 
> This story started as a one off of the wonderful [of superheroes & swan kings: a rousing tale of action and adventure as only marvels can deliver! ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3127490) which thyrza wrote for me for this year's Cap-Ironman holiday exchange. I loved the idea of a 3490 Noir 'verse so much that I wanted to write in it...but then mine took on a mind of its own and deviated heavily from the awesome world thyrza created, so I highly recommend checking hers out, too.
> 
> Written for Round 10 of [890fifth](http://890fifth.tumblr.com/): For The Man Who Has Everything
> 
>  **Warnings** : The "M" is on this fic for violence. There is some significant violence and medical/physical trauma in this story. If that's something that concerns you, please feel free to email or message me (deets in the profile) for more details. There is also a lot of non-sexual nudity.

*****1942****

"I've got you," said the tinny, metallic voice in Steve's ear. "I've got you."

He felt firm, solid arms-- arms made of metal, not muscle-- embrace him, and though they grazed over his bruises, prodded at his injuries, he relaxed into them, slowly, and let himself drift off into unconsciousness. 

When he woke, he was in his bed on the airship, a needle jabbed into his arm, connected to a vial of something suspiciously luminescent, a plaster on his head, and a metal mask staring at him from his bedside. 

"Steve?" Iron Man asked, and Steve blinked as his eyes re-adjusted to the light. "Steve, are you with me?"

The metal hand resting on his thigh hastily retreated, as if it shouldn't have been there.

In the next moment, Steve wasn't certain it had been there at all, and he wondered guiltily at the tricks his imagination might be playing on him. 

"Yeah," he answered. "Yes, sir, I'm here. What's the damage?"

"You passed out in the tunnel." 

Iron Man's voice, for all its lack of humanity, was familiar, soothing. 

"We get the, uh--"

"You did," Iron Man answered, nodding his approval. Well, Steve liked to think it was approval. "The artifact is in good hands."

Steve chuckled. "Yours?"

"Would that be a lie?" Iron Man asked.

Steve had been trying to imagine the man in the suit since he’d met him. He'd tried to get Pepper "Frank Finlay" Potts to give him some kind of hint-- not to the Iron Man's identity, but some sort of cues, some sort of description, since, even after all these months, the only thing he had to go one were those bright, piercing blue eyes that twinkled behind the iron mask.

Pepper had only smiled a wry sort of smile. "What makes you think he looks any different from the character in the books?" she asked.

"You lie about everything else in your books," Steve had replied.

"'Lying' is a strong word,' Pepper had said, with an elegant shrug. "It's more like 'adaptation.'"

Steve had snorted, and that had been the end of any attempt to pry into the life of the man behind the mask. 

Now, he watched the iron suit curiously. Never having seen its owner out of it, he'd become a close study of the limited body language the suit could afford its owner, and right now, he saw attentiveness and tension.

Iron Man got up from his seat, checking the strange fluid in the vial that was feeding Steve’s IV. He tapped at it, the metallic clink of his gauntleted hand against the glass echoing musically. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “Do you need to eat?” 

Steve flashed the metal man his brightest smile. "You know the answer to that already."

Iron Man was quiet for a moment, and Steve liked to imagine he was smiling behind the mask. "I'll have something brought up," he said.

Iron Man started for the door, then paused, looking back over his shoulder, his metal faceplate reflecting the golden glow of the lights. "I was worried about you for a second, pal," he said, and Steve thought he heard some real emotion in that metallic voice for once, and a familiar tightness twinged in his chest.

With Iron Man gone, Steve took stock of his current status, and winced as he shifted and realized just how sore he was. He'd been attacked in the tunnel, he remembered that, by some kind of huge monsters-- no, not monsters, mechanical, clockwork, maybe? He didn't know; that was Iron Man's milieu. He'd certainly crushed a few ribs, and a foot, and he didn't relish the idea of looking in the mirror, from the way his vision blurred in his left eye. At least his healing had sped up since Project Rebirth.

He heaved a sigh, knowing that Iron Man would chastise him for his reckless behavior the minute he was showing signs of rapid improvement, and leaned back against the pillows, waiting for his mechanically-enhanced compatriot's return.

He shut his eyes, drifted, mentally inhabiting that strange space where his head was full of thoughts that kept spiraling into dreams, and then back into conscious lucidity.

The doorknob clicked, and he straightened up, blinking away the sleep, trying to focus, putting a smile on his face so Iron Man wouldn't think it was all that bad.

He tried not to slump when Edwin Jarvis walked into the room, carrying a chafing dish. "I heard you were famished," the older man said, with a rather amused look on his face, eyes twinkling, as he pulled away the cover to reveal roast beef, green beans, potatoes that had been mashed, with little pools of butter settling in their indentations. The meat and beans were already cut small. 

"We conferred," Jarvis said, “And decided you might not be able to handle a knife yet, Cap."

Steve flashed a smile at the older man. "Tell Mister Elektro that it's touching, how he looks out for me."

"I'll be sure to deliver the message, Cap, m’boy." Jarvis grinned, cheekily, and gave Steve a head-waggle, and a little salute.

On the other side of the airship, Annie Stark was beside herself. "I can't _do_ this, Pep!" she moaned, and she threw herself across her bed with not a little (she thought) dramatic flair. "I'm putting him in mortal peril!"

Pepper looked up from her typewriter. She hadn't been paying attention. Annie let out a long-suffering sigh. Pepper stopped typing, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't seem to mind the mortal peril, Annie, dear."

"I know, I know, service in the name of king and country."

"We don't have a king," Pepper reminded her. 

"Roosevelt is _absolutely_ a king," Annie said, crossing her arms as she slumped back against the mattress. She picked up her left gauntlet and a tiny screwdriver; the casing around the wrist was loose, and she meant to sort that out before bed.

Pepper considered her for a moment, her head tilted, eyes bright in that way they always were when she was getting an _idea_. “We should do a fantasy series,” she said.

“What?” asked Annie. 

“A fantasy series. Set it back in olden-times, like.. _Prince Valiant_ , or something. You can be the warrior princess disguised as a boy; I can be your loyal handmaiden bound to keep your secret...Steve can be…” 

Pepper didn’t finish the sentence; she only gave Annie a long, hard, look. Annie lowered her work. 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Annie growled, and she pulled her pillow over her face as she felt her cheeks go hot. “You wouldn’t. You know I can’t--” 

“You’ve trusted him with everything else,” Pepper pointed out. “The ship, your missions...He can be trusted. We both know he can be trusted.” 

Annie ground her teeth. “It’s not whether he can be trusted. It’s whether it’s _fair_ to trust him. He doesn’t need to be here. He _shouldn’t_ be here; you haven’t seen him. It’s lucky every bone in his body isn’t smashed to smithereens.”

“It’s not luck,” Pepper answered. “It’s Project Rebirth. And we’ve had this argument about _every single person_ you’ve taken onto the team. Including me. It’s not fair, Annie, but we choose to be here. We understand the risks. I think Captain America understands them better than anyone.” 

Annie bit her lip, then began unbuttoning her blouse, fitting the key she wore around her neck into the hole in her chestplate. She reached for the cable to the generator, and attached the clamp to the battery that kept her heart pumping, laying back against the bed. The generator began to chug along spurting little puffs of smoke now and then-- by now, Annie was used to the noise and the smell, and almost found them soothing. 

“I just don’t think I could live with myself if…” 

Pepper hit a single key on her typewriter, the _kachuk_ of the type hitting the page punctuating Annie's silence. "I didn't realize you were this far gone."

"I'm not _anywhere_ gone," Annie grumbled. "He's pretty to look at, sure. But when have you ever known me to crack over a pretty face?"

"Tiberius Stone," Pepper answered nicely. "Rumiko Fujikawa. And that gloomy fellow in New York. What did he call himself?"

"That was the car, not the face," Annie answered irritably. “Technically, I never saw his face.” 

"It _was_ a very interesting car," Pepper agreed in a placating sort of way.

"I hate you," Annie informed Pepper.

"Well, if you're not interested, perhaps I'll try _my_ luck," Pepper said mischievously. "I'm _sure_ Mr. Hogan expects me to have at _least_ one sordid affair with a Marvel of Modern Medicine on our adventures." She tapped thoughtfully at the diamond ring on her finger.

Annie gave her a dark look in return. "I _can't_ , Pep."

"Why not?" Pepper asked.

Annie’s eyes strayed to the metal plate, to her mutilated chest, the scar tissue surrounding the plate, where her left breast should have been. She glanced away, to the sparks flaring from the generator, and shook her head. “I just can’t.”

*****1939*****

Annie threw her hands in the air in dismay at the brochure she was holding, waving for Pepper to take it from her. She was sitting on the floor of the bridge, legs splayed out, a pile of colorful papers laid in front of her. The dirigible was anchored over Manhattan Bay, the New York City skyline shining as the late afternoon sun glanced off the windows of the skyscrapers across the way.

“ _Elektro_!” Annie growled. “The Moto Man. Read this, Pep; go on, just read this. The nerve of some--”

Pepper studied the glossy brochure dutifully. "He walks! He talks! He even enjoys a smoke! Elektro can do everything the modern man can do. He only lacks a heart! Annie," she said, raising an eyebrow. "It's clearly a robot. It's not--"

"It's Howard's design," Annie said, through gritted teeth. "Look at it. The head. The heart.” 

She pointed to the golden head, the dome of the skull, the structure of the face, the angular slits of the eyes and mouth, and then the heart, the circular cut-out in the robot’s chest. She put a finger to her own sternum, felt the solidity of the metal beneath her shirt. 

“It's obviously inferior, but it's still using at least _three_ of Howard's patents. I'm going to--"

"You're going to do no such thing," Rhodey insisted, as he plopped himself into a seat at the table, which was also stacked with papers of all shapes and sizes. "It's a kid's toy. They'll put the robot on stage, demonstrate its five pre-programmed sentences of dialogue, and sell a bunch of kiddy-sized wind-up dolls in time for Christmas. The last thing we want to do is make a spectacle of ourselves at the World's Fair. We've got a job to do."

He tossed down another brochure, from the Eugenics Pavilion. 

"Ugh," Annie said, rolling her eyes. "Nazis."

"Yeah, but these ones aren't Nazis," Rhodey pointed out. "These ones are Americans."

"How to make eugenics work for you!" Pepper read. "The genetics behind racial superiority. Oooh, it says here that redheads are temperamental and alcoholic," she announced. 

"They got one out of two?" Annie joked.

"At least you're not me," Rhodey said, pulling apart the accordion-folded paper and pointing to a photo of Jesse Owens. "The Negro excels," he read, in a lofty voice, "at physical dominance, but is often lacking in higher intellect."

Annie tapped at her chest plate. "I don't care what they are; I hate these bastards."

Pepper frowned at the brochure, the colorful illustrations of happy, white, towheaded children with rosy cheeks and blue eyes. "And what, exactly, is our business with them at the World's Fair?"

Annie held up the back page of the brochure, where a tall, muscular young man-- blond and blue-eyed, too-- stood, chest proudly emblazoned with a costume reminiscent of the American Flag, beside a short, scrawny young man with a twisted spine. _Now!_ the brochure read. _A Marvel of Modern Medicine Transforms Man to Super-Man! The Human Race is Bound No Longer by Genetic Weakness but Made Great by American Ingenuity._

Pepper pursed her lips. "Annie, you can't be serious. You know it's all a sham. Some sideshow attraction, a circus strongman act..."

"I've seen that face," she said, tapping the man on the brochure.

"We've all seen a million faces like that," Pepper said. 

The face in question was handsome, chiseled, with bright blue eyes and a long, straight nose like a Roman statue. Blond hair spilled flawlessly into the man's face, the kind of careless perfection that took an excellent stylist. His lips were red and full and bowed. 

"Not this one," Annie said. "This is the real deal.” She lifted a grainy old photo from the collection of documents scattered about her, a young man with a white mark on his forehead in the shape of a letter 'A.' 

Pepper looked back and forth between the two photos. "What--"

"Subject Alpha," Rhodey said wonderingly. "The only successful test subject in Project Rebirth."

"But I thought...he died in nineteen seventeen," Pepper said. "I ghosted a series about him. I know everything there is to know about--"

"Obviously not everything," Annie observed. "And you can't deny _that_ \--" She tapped the young man's perfectly-sculpted abdominals-- "is stolen tech."

*****1938*****

The first sound Steve heard was the words "he's awake."

The sound came just before the blindingly bright lights, and he blinked, squinted, blinked again. He saw a white ceiling, white sheets, a blue hospital gown. 

Steve remembered an explosion. Bucky, he thought frantically. "Where's Bucky?" he demanded, jerking himself out of the bed.

"I'm afraid," said the strange man in the room with him, "that your young friend didn't make it."

Steve crumpled, reached for the bed rail for support, tripped back over his heels and sat down.

"Where am I?" He asked. "What am I doing here? Who are you?"

"You're in a hospital," the man replied, smiling kindly, tapping at the cap a silver pen with his index finger. "You were fished out of the ice in the Arctic Ocean. We've been waiting for you to wake up for two weeks. I'm a friend of Howard Stark's."

"Stark?" Steve asked. "The man who funded Erskine's experiments? Is he here?"

He was overcome with tremendous relief-- not strangers, not enemies after all.

"I'm afraid not," the man said, and he ran a hand over his bald head. "I wish he were every single day. But no, Howard Stark is dead, I'm afraid."

The man shook his head.

"Dead?" Steve asked. "No one told me. What happened?"

It must have been the war; it had to be the war. Stark had always been so devil-may-care, run into danger with guns blazing, the first one to open fire. 

"In the end?" The man replied. "In the end, I'm afraid it was sickness that did him in."

The man hesitated, putting the pen to his lips, running a hand over his head once again. "But listen, ah-- may I call you Steve?"

Steve nodded, then swallowed and tensed. Something about the way the man was speaking suggested that the worst was coming. "Of course. But you're going to have to give me a name to call you, Sir."

"Stane," the man replied. "Obadiah Stane. Call me Obie. Howard was my dear friend. I don't-- Steve, I don't know how to tell you this, but he's been dead for fourteen years."

Steve froze. "What?"

"You've been asleep for twenty."

*****1942*****

A day later, Steve had recovered enough to hobble into the common area of the airship.

“Look who’s up and about!” Jim Rhodes exclaimed cheerfully, looking up from his notes. 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Steve replied, pulling out a chair to sit. 

“I’m sure you’ll make it up to me.” 

There was a box on the table, a wooden box, carefully latched. Steve nodded at it. “Is that…” 

“Yeah.” Rhodes patted the top. 

Steve took a breath. “Can I--”

“Hell, you almost died finding it; I don’t see why not,” Rhodes replied. 

Steve opened the box. The chunk of horn inside was illuminated with a soft glow, pulsing almost like a heart. He frowned, reaching out to touch it, and it was warm against his fingertips, friendly, almost. 

“Amazing,” he said. 

Heavy footsteps clanked behind them. It always struck Steve as a miracle that here they were, on a flying ship, with a man in a metal suit that must have weighed several hundred pounds. “A piece of a unicorn’s horn,” Iron Man said from the doorway. “The last item we need.” 

“The Elixir of Life? You really think this is going to work?” Steve asked. 

Rhodes glanced at Iron Man, then back at Steve. “Annie does,” he said. “And that’s who we’re all here for.” 

“It’s worth a try,” Iron Man advised. 

“It had better be,” Rhodes said, sounding almost too sharp, Steve thought. “She’s running out of time. I swear, if this is another fool’s errand...” 

Iron Man was quiet. Uncomfortably quiet, and Steve felt badly for the man in the suit. He knew Iron Man worked for Annie Stark, but he’d never quite been able to pin down exactly what their relationship was. Sometimes he suspected they were family; sometimes he wondered if Iron Man wasn’t in love with her, from the way he got quiet whenever her condition came up.

“Are we charting a course for home, then?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” said Rhodes. “I know you live for this kind of thing, kid, but If I never see another Nazi, it’ll be too s--”

It was much too soon.

There was a loud whistling sound just before a blast punctured the side of the ship. Flames licked the inner wall, and the gondola jerked violently, throwing everything that wasn’t nailed down to the floor. Steve just barely stayed upright by clasping at the table, which was, due to foresight on Iron Man’s part, nailed down. 

Iron Man swore, loudly. “Suit up!” he snapped at Rhodes. “Get Pep, tell Jarvis to put on a suit, and get the hell off this thing before it becomes a deathtrap!” 

Rhodes took off at breakneck speed. 

Iron Man looked at Steve and grabbed the box containing the unicorn horn. “Emergency protocol, Captain,” he said. “I’ll radio in our coordinates, and we’re gonna have to drop. We might not be running on hydrogen like those idiot Krauts, but we’ll start losing altitude the minute they puncture the gas. Get yourself a chute.” 

"I'll empty the safe."

"Forget the safe; just get a bloody chute!" Iron Man answered, as he made haste toward his command center.

Steve half-raced, half-hobbled into action, picking up his shield and a chute on his way to the safe where they kept the rest of the items they’d gathered for Annie Stark. 

The shield seemed heavier than usual, almost too heavy, now, with all his injuries, and his arm ached simply from holding it up. 

He selected the combination, opened the safe, and removed the contents, already carefully packed into a leather satchel, and hooked it over his shoulder. 

He’d need to rendezvous with Iron Man. He took a breath, turned, and found himself face to face with a man in German field grey with a swastika on his arm. 

Steve swore under his breath. They’d been so close to finishing the mission, going back to New York, being free to get back to doing the kind of work he wanted to be doing--

Which, to be fair, was also fighting Nazis. 

He raised his crutch in the air and took a swing. 

That was the moment when he realized that the other man wasn’t armed. 

The crutch connected with the man’s face-- and splintered, barely seeming to leave an imprint. The man sneered, an ugly smile, eyes glinting with a reddish, bloody hue, opened his mouth, and flames gushed from his lips, hot and furious.

It took all the strength Steve had to hold his shield up against the barrage of flames; without his crutch, his injured leg buckled beneath him, and he leaned into the attack just to support himself.

The walls caught fire, flames licking higher and higher as the wood crackled and bowed with the heat. 

Steve’s brow began to trickle with sweat; everything was warm, too warm, and smoke invaded his mouth, his nostrils, made his eyes tear. There was no way out: his back was against a wall, this flame-breathing man blocking his egress.

The beam above his head let out an ominous squeal as it cracked down the center. Steve could only see one option. He bent at the waist, tucked his head down, and ran, full-force, toward his attacker, shield-first, like a battering ram.

What he hit was like stone, like the most immovable granite, and he glanced off the man's torso like a stray twig off a windowpane, bouncing away, falling backward as if he'd been pushed. 

He hit the floor with such force that his elbow jabbed through a plank, splinters scraping through his shirt, and in that moment, as blood soaked through the white cotton, he regretted his lack of uniform. The man above him laughed, malicious glee in his voice. 

Steve sucked in a breath. Here, at the floor, the air wasn't so thick with smoke. Through the floor beneath him, he could see the gondola's outer skeleton, the steel bands that held her together, and beyond that, snatched of blue and dark grey-- the sky, the ocean. 

The man above him bore down. 

"Captain America, huh?" The man said with a sneer. "Something tells me you're gonna wish you stayed frozen."

His voice came out in a drawl, easy, his vowels long and his consonants slurred together, not the careful, precise English of someone who had learned it as a second language.

He was American. 

The man in the Nazi uniform was American.

Steve tensed, shut his eyes, and raised his shield one last time.

*****1939*****

"This can't be happening," Annie whispered, from her seat at the back of the pavilion. "It can't; it can't."

The man in front of her was too real, too much like all the photos she'd studied in her father's files. She'd gone over those notes, Erskine's notes and Howard's own, so many times, tried to recreate whatever it was that Erskine had done, without success. And here, standing not a hundred feet away, was the key. 

"Do you want to move closer?" Pepper asked. 

Annie straightened her tie. "Closer? Close enough to get a sample of his _blood_?"

She grimaced, teeth gritted, slouching down as far as she could in her seat, in spite of the fact that they were so far back in the audience, and there were so many flashbulbs going up in the front, that she doubted Stane would notice her. 

The applause died down, Stane stepped forward, to the podium. “Captain America, Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, turning toward the blond man who stood beside him, looking rather stiff and a little bit cold as he stood on the stage in a ridiculous getup that covered hardly more than a bathing suit: trunks of blue with stars fixed on them, a tiny red-and-white striped top.

“That leaves nothing to the imagination,” Pepper noted, seeming impressed. 

“That’s Captain Steve Rogers,” said Stane. Annie scowled at his grandstanding, as he stepped from one side of the stage to the other, parading like a peacock in his double-breasted suit. “The one, the only, the genuine article, believed to have been killed in action in nineteen seventeen, back with us today. And ready to stand up for his country again, should the need arise. Go ahead, Steve, you can sit down.” 

The audience cheered excitedly. 

“Can I put a shirt on?” Steve asked, and the audience chuckled. Stane looked caught out for a moment-- Steve didn’t have a microphone; he’d clearly not been expected to speak-- but then he chuckled, too. 

“Listen to that good old-fashioned American sense of humor, kids,” Stane said cheerfully. 

Annie squinted, crossing her arms over her chest. “I wonder what he uses to polish his head,” she said, in a low growl. “Whatever it is, I’m going to weaponize it.” 

Stane babbled on, something about American ingenuity, and Annie barely listened, until she heard her father’s name, and she sat up like a bolt. 

“We all know how dedicated Mr. Stark was to...a real belief in creating a better future,” he said. 

“Bullshit,” Annie said, fists tight in her lap. “ _Bullshit_. You dismantled all his most important--” 

“Shh,” Pepper said softly, and she patted at Annie’s shoulder. 

Annie sulked and kicked at the chair in front of her, earning a stern look from the grey-haired man seated there. “Watch, he’s going to mention _me_ next,” she said.

“For people like his daughter, Annie,” Stane said, “whose ingenuity has been _such_ a blessing to the modernization of American industry, and whom I had the privilege to raise after her father’s untimely--” 

“Like he’s some kind of Daddy Warbucks. I wish _he’d_ died of a broken heart when Roosevelt won the election,” Annie said, darkly. “I would have been better off.” 

“This is the kind of commitment to America that is going to keep us head and shoulders above the rest in the coming years. And why an understanding of genetics--” and here, Stane nodded to Steve, “and what sets superior genes apart-- is going to help America set itself apart.” 

Annie coughed into her hand, as the audience applauded politely. “The _hypocrisy_ of using _Project Rebirth_ as the basis of a eugenicist argument--” she hissed at Pepper. 

There were hands shooting up in the audience. Stane called on a freckled little boy who wanted to know if Captain America could pick up his dad. The audience laughed, as Captain America-- he looked so _young_ , Annie thought, no older than she was, maybe younger-- looked a little sheepish, and surprised by the question. 

He seemed to recover almost immediately, slapping a lopsided grin on his face. “I don’t think it’s a question of whether I can,” he replied. “It’s more a question of whether I _should_.” 

The questions went on like this. People asked about Captain America's strength and speed, about how Stane's explorers had found him.

"That should have been me," Annie said, through gritted teeth. "That was Howard's project, that--"

"You're agitating yourself," Pepper advised. "Annie, remember your heart."

"I _am_ remembering," Annie snapped. "It's my heart; it's impossible to not remember."

Pepper gave her a hurt look, and then turned back to the presentation.

Annie sighed, winced, and turned to her, shaking her head. "Sorry, Pep, it's just--"

But a hush had fallen over the audience. A young woman, prim and dark-haired, well-dressed in a crisp pink skirt suit, was standing, facing the stage, hands on her hips. 

"--have yet to tell anyone here what this does to promote the public health," she was saying. 

Annie swung back around to watch, eyes wide. 

"I would think the applications are immeasurable," said Stane.

"Applications to your reputation," the young woman replied. "You're demonstrating a technology that was only successful once; you haven't yet shown any ability to recreate the experiment, and if you could, I want to know what applications a _super soldier_ program has beyond war."

"Miss Hansen," said Stane, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Hansen of FuturePharm; I'm sure you all remember her company as the firm that developed the _second_ most-effective vaccine technology."

"Because out research funding was pulled by a congressional committee that was in _your_ pockets, Mister Stane," said Miss Hansen. “And it’s _Doctor_ Hansen.” 

The audience was murmuring, shifting uncomfortably. _Captain America_ was shifting uncomfortably, and looked like he wished he had someone to murmur to.

"I'd be happy to discuss any and all potential partnerships between Stane International and Futurepharm at your convenience, Miss Hansen," said Stane, and he flicked his hand. Annie knew what that meant-- he was calling for security.

"I'm not interested in anything you have to offer, Mr. Stane," said Doctor Hansen. "I'm interested-- as I'm sure all these people are-- in whether you're actually looking into advancements in medicine, or in warfare."

Doctor Hansen looked up, looked both ways, saw the guards closing in.

"And if--" Doctor Hansen continued, weaving through the aisle she had been seated in, away from the security detail, "you have unlocked the secret to the supersoldier serum, to whom you're prepared to sell?"

" _Miss Hansen_ ," Stane said in a stern, chastising tone Annie knew all too well. 

The crowd went silent. The nearest guard reached Doctor Hansen, took her by the arm without resistance. She held still, squaring her shoulders. 

"The highest bidder?" Doctor Hansen called, her voice ringing cool and clear over the heads of the audience, before she follows the guard away from the pavilion.

Annie felt her whole body go hot, felt herself tremble with rage. Before she knew what she was doing, she was getting up from her seat.

"Annie, _don't_ ," Pepper hissed, but it was too late. Annie was on her feet, and she smoothed down her slacks, straightened her jacket, and locked eyes with Obadiah Stane.

She went cold, her hands on the lapels of her jacket.

And then, with a tight breath, and a sudden burst of resolve, she walked away.

*****1942****

The man-- the American in the Nazi uniform-- bore down with a foot just as Steve lifted the shield-- and good thing, too, because even with the shield, Steve could barely fend him off. The force of his arm against the vibranium pushed Steve farther back against the floor. Steve aimed a kick at the man with his good leg, trying to throw him off balance, but kicking at the man was like kicking into a steel girder.

The man stamped down on Steve’s injured leg, and Steve heard the sharp crack of bone. The pain was intense-- Steve’s vision clouded, bright lights flashing in front of his eyes, and, clenching his jaw, he brought the shield down against the already-splintered floor, putting all his weight behind it. 

The floor cracked clear through, the wind blowing up, whistling sharp and cold through the gaping hole beneath him. 

He only barely had time to re-orient the shield above him before his assailant spewed another lungful of fire at him, and the flames licked around the shield, catching at his arms, incinerating his shirtsleeves, leaving painful burns on his skin. 

He checked the placement of the satchel on his shoulder, checked to make sure it was secure, and threw himself out the gaping hole in the floor of the airship. 

Still half-blind, his leg throbbing in agony, Steve pulled at the cord to his chute as the wind whipped up around him. 

Nothing happened; he tugged harder, and this time, the cord, singed, came away in his hand. He swallowed hard, squeezed his eyes shut, and rearranged his body so that his toes pointed down, and he held the shield above his head with both hands, praying that it would slow his descent. 

Above him, a bright light flared for a moment as the balloon caught fire, and he watched the burning remains of the ship begin to tumble down.

He fell, plummeting toward earth like a stone, faster and faster, his teeth rattling against each other, the flesh of his face pressed up hard against his cheekbones, the tatters of his shirt ripped from his body by the winds. 

The balloon, with all its wood and steel, fell faster than he did, and burning debris rained down on the the shield, clanging as it hit the brightly painted surface. He avoided the bulk of it, though, and its skeletal remains hit the water with a tremendous splash.

When it seemed as if he’d been falling forever, he opened his eyes, trying to gauge his distance to impact, and the water was coming up fast beneath him-- he thanked his lucky stars it was water, because he wasn’t sure he’d have survived an impact with the ground, even with the shield. He tugged the shield down to his chest, tried to curl his legs inside its curved surface-- but his injured leg throbbed in complaint. 

He sucked in a breath, and--

Suddenly, he felt a jerk, as if he’d been caught on something mid-fall, but the motion was gentler than that, moved with him, removed some of the sudden impact, and he found himself, now, not falling, but gliding, and then ascending, away from the water again.

Familiar arms wrapped around him, cradled him like a child, and he hissed in pain as Iron Man arranged his injured leg. 

“Couldn’t wait for me?” Iron Man asked.

“Had somewhere to be,” Steve murmured back. He tugged at the satchel strap.  
Iron Man was uncharacteristically quiet as he bobbled slightly in the air, and then made for the shoreline. 

“I told you not to,” he said. 

Steve wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but it felt as if Iron Man had clutched him a little more tightly. “Annie’s life depends on it,” he pointed out. “What were we going to tell her? That we gave up?”

He leaned his head back, weakly, against Iron Man’s broad, metal chest; the electrical heart that powered the suit let out a soft glow that was warm against Steve’s cheek, and a gentle thrum that filled his ear. It was a soothing sound, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy, felt himself begin to drowse.

“I’d rather--” Iron Man started, and then hushed. “I mean,” he said, more slowly this time, as if he were choosing his words with care, “I think she would have understood.” 

Steve heard a hissing sound, like a breath, like maybe a breath being drawn in sharply, though Iron Man's metal chest didn't move.

"She'd kill me," Iron Man said. "If I let anything happen to you."

*****1939*****

“Who was that girl?” Steve asked Obie as the left the stage. The presentation had been a success, apart from one very distraught young woman shouting about technological advancement in a way that had left Steve unsettled.

Obie clapped Steve on the back as they walked to his dressing room. “Maya Hansen? She’s a pharmacologist,” he answered. “And a good one, too, but she’s bitter that my company beat her out for a couple of major contracts, and--” He shrugged. “There’s nothing like a sore loser. I told her we could work together,” he said. “She refused. It’s too bad, really…”

“No,” Steve answered. “I understood that conversation from context. The other girl. The one in the men’s suit. The one you were staring at.” 

“Ah,” Obie said. They stepped into Steve’s dressing room. Obie poured them each a measure of scotch, and he sat down on a sofa while Steve changed into slacks and a plain cotton buttondown. “That, my friend, is Annie Stark.” 

“Howard’s daughter?” Steve asked, looking up mid-button. “The one you raised?” 

“The same,” Obie answered. “And I suppose I could have done a better job, too, but a child that age, in mourning, needs to find someone to blame. I was convenient.” 

He sipped at his scotch, looking pensive. “She got older, and we never saw eye to eye on what it would take to preserve her father’s legacy. She came of age, drove her father’s business into the ground in the matter of a year. I tried to bail her out, salvage what I could, the useful projects, bring them under my wing. She saw it as a hostile takeover.” 

Steve chewed at his lip. “But you were doing what you had to?” he asked. 

“I offered her control of research and development. She refused, said she would rather start from the bottom up than work with a robber baron. What could I do but let her go?” Obie shrugged. “She’s brilliant, but she’s never had a head for business. Too flighty, too fantastical. You know the type.” 

“Can’t say I do,” Steve answered with a snort, as he straightened his tie in the mirror, gave his hair a cursory look, and took his own glass. “Women aren’t exactly my forte.” 

“Well,” said Obie, chuckling, and he raised his glass in Steve’s direction. “We’ll fix that soon enough. You go,” he said, waving Steve toward the door. “Enjoy the fair. Soak in the sights. Try the Swedish pavilion; the meatballs they’ve got there...not to mention the girls…” He waggled an eyebrow in Steve’s direction.

“Yes, yes,” Steve retorted, picking up his jacket. “Meatballs and girls. I’ll do my best.” 

Acquiring meatballs at the Swedish pavilion was easy work. Acquiring girls-- well, that hadn’t precisely been high on his agenda, but as a tall, slender redhead with a smattering of freckles over her nose approached, he thought, with some amusement, that fate appeared to have planned otherwise. 

She slid into the seat across from him, and rested her chin on her hands. “Captain Rogers?” she asked.

“It’s technically Private,” Steve explained. “Private Rogers.”

“Private Rogers, Captain America?” the woman asked, and she held out a hand. “Miss Virginia Potts.” 

Steve wiped his fingers on his napkin, and held his hand out to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Potts. I take it you saw the presentation?” 

“Mmm,” Miss Potts answered. She flashed him a grin, snatched a meatball off his plate with her long, dainty, yet callused and ink-stained fingers, and popped it in her mouth. “What sort of game are you and Mr. Stane playing?” she asked. 

Steve stole another glance at her fingers-- ink, certainly, but also a sparkling diamond ring. She was at very least engaged, or wanted people to think so. And as little experience as Steve had with courtship, that question was definitely not of the flirtation variety. 

“Are you a reporter?” he asked.

She grinned. “No,” she answered, and tossed her hair, the light glancing off it in shades of copper and gold. “Nothing so respectable. I’m a novelist. I wrote a book about-- well.” 

She gave him a pointed look. “I wrote a book about Captain America. I’ve yet to be sure whether it was about you.” 

“Ah,” Steve replied. He flagged down a waiter and ordered another plate of meatballs. “So what brings you here?” 

Miss Potts smirked, pulling her lips together into a little cupid’s bow pout. Her face was feline, angular, high-cheekboned; her eyes were green and sparkling. “It’s professional curiosity,” she admitted. “Captain America died. Now you’re back, twenty years later, haven’t aged a day, and you’re shilling for corporate scum? Not that that doesn’t seem like the _definition_ of American.” 

Steve stiffened, a little taken aback. “The man’s why I’m here today,” he said, quietly, but he could hear the defensiveness creeping into his tone. “He’s been very kind to me, and I--”

“He was very kind to some other people I know, too,” Miss Potts replied. “Until they outlived their usefulness. Look, Mister,” she said. “You don’t really think anybody believes you’re Captain America?” 

“I don’t know what they believe,” Steve admitted. “You want proof? You saw me pick up a car.”

“Could be papier maché, for all I know,” Miss Potts pointed out. “I just didn’t think Steve Rogers was the kind of guy who’d put himself on display like that.” 

“Mr. Stane knows there’s a war on the horizon,” Steve answered. “He’s trying to convince the government that we need more money in science research if we’re going to best the Nazis at their own game.” 

“The problem with besting the Nazis at their own game,” Miss Potts answered. “Is that that means playing the Nazis’ game. You really want to do that?” 

“I want to help people,” Steve answered. 

Another steaming hot plate was dropped between the two of them. Steve offered Miss Potts his fork, and she went to work on the meatballs. 

“You really think that’s helping people?” Miss Potts asked. “Being paraded around in some kind of costume, being shown off like a science project by a man who’d choose neutrality if it meant he could make a killing selling weapons to everybody in Europe?” 

Steve worried at his napkin with his fingers, shaking his head. “You don’t know him,” he said. “He’s better than that. He...he’s trying to keep Abraham Erskine’s work alive. He inherited it from Howard Stark.” 

“Who told you that?” Miss Potts asked, blinking. She sucked down the last of the meatballs. Steve eyed the plate, impressed with the speed in which she’d cleared the plate. 

“Miss,” Steve said, taking a breath. “I’m not sure I understand the point of this interrogation.” 

“It’s not an interrogation,” Miss Potts replied, and she shoved the plate back in his direction, standing up from the table. “It’s a job interview.” 

She pressed a card down on the surface of the table. “Call my employer if you’re interested in _actually_ helping.” 

“Miss--” Steve stood up, but Miss Potts walked out of the pavilion with a purposeful gait, not looking back. 

Steve sighed, and turned his attention back to the card.

_Annie E. Stark_  
_President_  
_Stark Enterprises_

*****1942****

The tapping of the typewriter keys lured Annie downstairs, into the soft glow coming from her father's old study.

"Can't sleep?" Pepper asked, looking up. "You should be in bed." 

Annie shook her head, screwed up her nose at Pepper. "Says the one banging away at a typewriter at two in the morning. What are you writing now, 'Iron Man in the Case of the Midair Catastrophe'? Watch in Wonder! As Iron Man nearly gets all his friends killed in flight!" She splayed her fingers out, waved her arms in the air dramatically.

Pepper leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. "That wasn't your fault, Annie."

"Steve--"

"Knew exactly what he was doing." Pepper gave her a sharp look. "Completing the mission."

"Saving my life," Annie corrected. 

"Well, you could do us all a favor and stop acting like that's a worthless endeavor," Pepper pointed out. "If you're up, you may as well get me a cup of tea."

Annie groaned and shuffled to the kitchen, leaning against the counter while the kettle heated.

She began to sag. Her exhaustion was becoming pervasive: it came on too fast, too often. Her head would become heavy, her feet would drag. She slid a hand beneath the hem of her shirt, tapping at the metal chestplate. 

"Come on," she said, softly, cajolingly. "Not so long, now. You can hold out."

She felt a twinge at the thought of having to replace it again. Even by her best estimates, she wasn't sure she'd make it.

The kettle began to whistle. She poured two cups of tea, and took one to Pepper. 

"Thanks, love," Pepper said absently, and kept tapping away, biting her lip and looking extremely intent on her work.

"I'm going...up to bed," Annie said.

She shuffled out of the room, up the stairs, balancing her cup full of piping hot tea carefully as she went. It was her mother's old china, the set with pink and blue forget-me-nots and gilding on the rim, and it made her feel large and clumsy, with her mechanic's hands, their calluses, scrapes and stains. 

At the landing, she started for her room, and then stopped, abruptly, turned, and made her way to the far end of the hall. 

She opened the door carefully, trying to keep quiet, but of course, old hinges on old buildings creaked in spite of one's best efforts. 

Steve remained asleep, though, and she slid into a comfortable old plush chair, tucking one foot beneath her.

This was her old bedroom, her childhood bedroom, and little had been changed since she'd been sent away to school. The wallpaper was still beige, printed with ropes of dusty pink roses; the curtains were pink velveteen, as was the upholstery of the chair she sat in. The furniture was light, laquered wood carved with roses.

Steve was sleeping under her favorite quilt, the one her mother's mother had made from scraps of calico, back when their family were poor immigrants. She remembered her mother touching those triangles of fabric, telling stories that went with each one: this one was from an old dress, this one from an old bonnet. This one came from the leftover scraps, when her grandmother took in mending to make ends meet. 

She reached out with her stockinged foot, pressed her toe to her favorite swatch, a bit of dark blue with pink rosebuds on it, and took a long drink of tea. 

She sat with her teacup in her lap and one foot on the bed, cautiously avoiding Steve's sleeping bulk, and watched him with a frown. He'd risked his life for hers-- and she couldn't pretend it was out of any affection. After all, as far as Steve was concerned, they'd only met briefly, a handful of times, over the past few years. As far as Steve was concerned, she was Uncle Obie's brilliant, eccentric niece-slash-adopted-daughter, who couldn't be trusted with money, who was dying from a rare heart condition, who entertained herself by sending a man in a metal suit on adventures so she could live vicariously through Pepper's fictional accounts. 

But he'd still risked his life. Twice, probably more, but perhaps he'd been luckier on other occasions. It couldn't just be the job. No one threw away all sense of self-preservation over money. Was he simply that good? Did he have an adrenaline-fueled death wish? She wasn't sure; maybe both.

She put down the empty teacup on the side table, rested her chin on her hands. 

"Annie?"

Annie jumped. 

She shook herself awake, her head light, he back stiff, unaware of her surroundings. She was sitting up-- wearing slacks and a men’s undershirt that betrayed the shape of the hard metal plate that covered the left side of her chest. There was drool running across her cheek and down her chin, crusting onto her skin. Bright, early-morning light streamed through the windows, danced against the wallpaper roses. 

She rubbed her face, blinking, and looked to the source of the sound. 

“Annie?” Steve repeated, pulling himself up to sit in bed. 

And he wasn’t wearing any shirt. She looked _away_ from the source of the sound. “I-- I must have fallen asleep,” she said, trying to pick off the last of the dried-on saliva. 

“I had gathered,” Steve replied, and the wry tone in his voice drew her eyes back to him. He was smiling-- tiredly, but smiling nonetheless. “I didn’t know you were--” He stopped, laughed, a little bit nervously, and looked around. 

“Is this your house?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Annie answered. “I--we--thought it would be best. Your leg’s fractured; even with the accelerated healing, you’ll be down for the count for a-- my best guess is a couple of weeks.” 

Steve looked morosely down at the lump underneath the blanket, the one that was propped up on several pillows. “Did Iron Man tell you what--” 

He stopped, looking around the room again. “Where’s Iron Man?”

Annie bit her lip. “I had to send him on an errand.” 

Of course; of course he didn’t want _her_ here; he wanted his friend, the man he worked with. He probably would have been happier to see Pepper than to see her. She grimaced. “I’ll tell him to come see you as soon as he’s back.” 

Steve grinned. “Thanks,” he said. “Did he tell you what happened?” 

“He said you saw more than he did,” Annie replied. “Why don’t you tell me?” 

Steve took a breath, and started speaking. She’d heard most of it, of course, everything but what Steve had seen on his own, before he fell. She tried to listen intently, and nod at the appropriate moments, as if she didn’t know what had been going on just before the attack. They had been examining the unicorn’s horn; there had been an explosion. Steve went to the safe-- and she nearly blurted that she had told him not to, before she caught herself and held her tongue, though she could feel her grip on the arms of her chair tighten. 

“I had gotten the satchel,” Steve said. “When a man showed up.”

“Nazis?” Annie asked. 

“I’m not sure,” Steve admitted. “He was wearing a Nazi uniform, but he talked like an American.” 

“Great,” Annie said, with a grunt. She rolled her eyes. “The Bund. Just who we want to deal with.” 

“It could be,” Steve said. “But...I got the feeling it might have been a, you know-- imposter. Wanted us to think they were Nazis.” 

He took a breath, rubbing at his forehead, a look of concentration and confusion on his face, as if there were something wrong with his memory. “He breathed fire.” 

“Breathed fire?” The words were out of Annie’s mouth before she realized she’d spoken aloud, and her stomach lurched, and Steve started, as if he intended to get out of bed. 

She saw him bit his lip, and he let out a hiss and settled back down. “Are you alright?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she said, nodding firmly, though she felt a chill run through her, felt her limbs go weak. “But there’s somebody I need to--” 

She tried to shake it off, but the shake turned into a shudder, and ran a hand through her hair-- it was limp, greasy. “I need to make a phone call.” 

Pushing herself up from the chair was an effort-- the beeping sound in her ear told her that the battery for the motor that powered her heart was down to three percent. She’d gone too long without charging it up, and then she’d slept here. 

“You don’t look alright,” Steve said. 

“You’re one to talk,” Annie snapped, immediately regretting it. 

Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not pretending otherwise, though, Miss Stark.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she said with a grimace. “I just need--” She squeezed her eyes shut and her head began to spin.

Steve rang the bell by his bedside. She wanted to glare at him, but glaring required opening her eyes, and everything was pins and needles, her breath was coming short. 

It beeped again;she was down to two percent. She swore under her breath; the battery wasn’t holding a charge as well as it should. 

“You need help,” Steve said, stubbornly, and she heard a thump. 

“You shouldn’t be--” she said weakly, but her voice had been reduced to a squeak. 

“To hell with shouldn’t,” Steve said with a snarl. He grunted, and she heard another thump, and his hand was on her shoulder. “PEPPER!” Steve shouted. “JARVIS! Is Rhodes still here? JIM!”

Another thump, and she was in the air, his arm beneath her; he’d scooped her up with one arm, cradled her against his chest, and when he took a step and thumped again, she realized that he must have found a makeshift crutch. 

Her fingers fumbled to find his neck, and she managed to wrap her arms around him, then collapsed limply against his chest. His skin was warm against her cheek, and though he smelled like sweat and blood and gunpowder and leather and antiseptic, there was something comforting about it.

They thumped toward the door, but the door opened before they reached it, and heavy footsteps on the floor. 

“Annie?” she heard Jarvis’ voice, thick with worry. “Is she--”

“She had some kind of...attack,” Steve said, and Annie heard the way his voice pitched up, could feel the way his heart beat fast just beneath the spot where her ear rested. “It was sudden-- she was sitting, but it was like she-- collapsed. I didn’t know what to--” 

Annie felt Jarvis’ arms around her, and Steve relinquished his grip on her to the older man, who cradled her like a baby. She struggled to open her eyes, to reassure him, and he smiled down at her, kissed her on the top of the head. 

“I’ll take it from here,” Jarvis assured Steve. “She just needs her treatment. She’ll be--” And she could see the dark look in his eyes as he looked her over. “ _Fine_ ,” he said, sharply. “Even if the power goes dead, she’s got a good twenty minutes before her heart goes out completely.” 

“Can I--” Steve said, as Jarvis turned to the door, and Annie lost the strength to keep her eyes open any longer. 

“When she’s up for a visit, someone will tell you,” Jarvis answered, as he clutched her close. “Meanwhile, you ought to be in bed yourself, son.”

*****1939*****

“So,” Annie said, as she dropped into the line for Futurama.

“Hey, lady!” the man behind her bellowed. “Y’know, some of us have been waitin’ all day.” 

“Oh,” she said, blinking, as she turned around. “I’m so sorry--”

“Yeah, well, get on on the back of the line like the rest of us!” shouted a woman. “I’ve been on this line for three hours!” 

The woman beside her turned around, taking her hand. “There’s no need to be rude,” she said, holding her chin high. “This is my sister; I’ve been waiting longer than you.” 

The man behind them reddened, and he kicked at the ground. “Well, you could’ve said,” he muttered. 

“I’m very sorry,” Annie assured him, glancing sidelong at her companion. 

“My sister’s visiting from Iowa,” Doctor Hansen said nicely, nodding at Annie with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “She’s not used to big crowds.” 

“Iowa, huh?” Annie murmured to Doctor Hansen, when they’d turned around. She looked at the line stretching on in front of them, spiraling into the futuristic, circular building with its curved white overhangs and huge, clear windows. “Believe it or not, I’m not sure I’ve even been to Iowa.” 

“Yes, you have; you were out there in thirty-six for the agricultural conference,” Doctor Hansen said.

They were funneled through the narrow passages of the entryway to the ride, before being ushered into their seats. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Doctor Hansen asked, as the car began to move.

Through a series of windows, they saw a detailed diorama of an agrarian society, lush and pastoral, with a wide road cutting through the farmland, dotted with modern-looking, shiny automobiles. 

“I saw you at the presentation,” Annie replied.

A voice overhead welcomed them to the future of Nineteen Sixty, a future where technology and modern urban planning had improved life for all Americans. 

“Oh?” asked Doctor Hansen. “And I take it your uncle sent you to--”

“He’s not my anything,” Annie said irritably. “We’re not family.” 

The car moved past the farmland. The next model was of a city, a city that looked like something from a science fiction film, with huge skyscrapers and ordered, geometric roads. 

“Tell him that,” said Doctor Hansen. “He _loves_ flaunting his beloved niece. Engineer of the Iron Man suit, the first successful prosthetic heart, your work in aeronautics and munitions.” 

“Which he _stole_ ,” Annie answered. “And it seems like he did something to get under your skin, too.” 

The speaker talked about urban planning, about separating industrial neighborhoods from residential ones. 

“Ha, under my skin,” said Doctor Hansen. “Ironic, considering he got my inoculation research funding revoked.” 

“Inoculations?” Annie asked. “Against what?” 

Doctor Hansen gave her a sidelong look. “That’s classified.” 

Doctor Hansen’s eyes dropped, and Annie stiffened, as she noticed the other woman’s gaze lower to her chest. Under her suit, with the proper padding, Annie looked every bit an ordinary woman. The metal plate, the mechanisms that kept her heart pumping, were invisible, but it was obvious that Doctor Hansen had read her research from the way her eyes flicked across her breast, up to her sternum. 

The voiceover talked about the eradication of slums, about recreational facilities taking the place of shantytowns, about every American family owning a car. 

Doctor Hansen’s eyes shot back up, and she eyed the diorama grimly. Her fingers drummed on her knee. 

She made eye contact again. “Did you hear that?” 

“What?” Annie asked. 

“That part. In the narration,” Doctor Hansen replied. 

“That slums will be gone from modern cities?” Annie repeated. “That there will be public recreation facilities?” 

“Annie,” Doctor Hansen said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Can I call you Annie?” 

Annie shrugged. “As long as you don’t lump me in with Stane again, I don’t care what you call me.” 

Doctor Hansen pursed her lips. “Annie,” she repeated. “What are they going to do with the poor people?” 

“The--” Annie frowned. 

“They’re talking about removing slums from cities,” Doctor Hansen said. “They called them _unsightly_. They’re not talking about removing poverty. They’re talking about removing the _poor_.” 

A chill went up Annie’s spine, and she found her own hands tightening on the railing. 

She was silent for too long. 

“I don’t know what to call you,” she said to Doctor Hansen.

“Maya. My name’s Maya.” 

Annie still felt cold as they exited the ride, and she rubbed at her forearms in a futile attempt to get warm, in spite of the bright sun overhead. They wandered past the scantily-clad “Sun Worshippers,” a troupe of young women playing croquet in tiny fringe skirts and sheer bikini tops that exposed every curve, left pink and brown nipples clearly visible. Annie glared at them a moment, with a sort of guilty envy. 

“There’s going to be a war,” Annie said. “It’s inescapable; Germany doesn’t even have a pavilion at the Fair.” 

Maya snorted, and pulled out a slender silver cigarette case. “That’s an interesting way to come to that conclusion.” 

She offered a cigarette to Annie. 

“Can’t,” Annie said, with a weak smile. “I know you know why.” 

Maya glanced at Annie’s chest again, then up. “Ah,” she replied. “So it’s true.” She removed a cigarette for herself, lit it, took a long drag and breathed out white smoke that curled up into the atmosphere. “I wondered.” 

“They’re going to send them to war,” Annie said, hesitantly. “There’ll be a draft.”

“That takes care of the men,” Maya replied. “The women and children, the elderly and infirm...they’ll all still be here. How do they get rid of them?” 

“I don’t…” Annie started, but Maya coughed. At first, Annie thought she was coughing from the cigarette, but then she realized that the cough was a cue. 

“Epidemic,” Annie said. 

“Funny how the leading munitions manufacturer in the country just stopped the funding to a firm researching vaccines, isn’t it?” Maya asked, bitterly. 

If Annie had felt cold before, she was positively freezing now. 

“I could fund you,” she blurted. She hadn’t done the math; she didn’t care. She ran preliminary figures in her head, mentally moved money from one investment to another. It was easier for Obie to think she was bad at business; it kept him from realizing exactly what assets she had under her control. “Tell me what you’re working on; what you need.” 

Maya gave her a cautious look. “That’s a generous offer,” she said. “But I’ve only got your word to say you’re not in this with Stane.” 

“What?” Annie laughed, coldly. “Usually the investor’s the one asking for documentation.” 

“You’ll get all the documentation you want,” Maya replied, tossing her hair. “As soon as you prove to me I can trust you.”

*****1942****

Steve was up and about-- _truly_ up and about-- by late afternoon, his accelerated healing had made short work of most of his scrapes and bruises, and the only injury remaining was his broken leg. Outfitted with a proper pair of crutches, he hobbled his way downstairs, where he found Jarvis and Rhodey poring over the contents of the satchel.

“Steve!” Rhodes exclaimed cheerfully, clapping Steve on the arm as he thumped into the room. “Feeling better? Can we get you anything?” 

Steve smiled weakly, and ran his hand through his hair. “I’m pretty well taken care of, thanks,” he replied. “Annie’s alright?” 

Annie had to be alright; the men wouldn’t be so casually examining their latest attempt to cure her if she wasn’t alright. 

“She’s resting,” Jarvis replied. “It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before.” 

Steve winced, and he considered what it must be like, for that to be part of anyone’s ordinary reality. 

“It’s been happening more often, though,” Rhodes added, catching Steve’s expression. “Which is why we’re trying this.” 

He tapped at a slender, reddish vegetable stalk. “You know this thing has rhubarb in it?” he asked. “ _Rhubarb_ , of all things. We’ve got unicorn’s horn, crocodile tears, a phoenix feather, these purple flowers...and rhubarb.” 

The unicorn horn reminded Steve. “Where’s Iron Man? Is he back yet?” 

Rhodes and Jarvis exchanged a glance, and Jarvis shook his head. “Annie let Iron Man take a little break,” he said. 

“You know when he’ll be back?” Steve asked, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I-- I haven’t gotten to thank him for catching me.” 

Jarvis smiled. “I suspect,” he answered, “when Annie needs him again.” 

*

*****

Steve's leg was itching like hell under the plaster on his leg, and he could feel the sweat tickling at his skin, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was grateful, he supposed, that he wouldn't have to wear it as long as the average sap, but it was still frustrating as hell.

When dinnertime rolled around, he decided to try taking his chances with Annie. He intercepted Annie's housekeeper, the sweet and unassuming Mrs. Arbogast, in the kitchen, and carried his hostess' tray up to her room. 

Annie was awake, if looking a bit worse for wear, her usually olive skin sallow and ashen, dark circles beneath her eyes, and if she could have possibly dropped five pounds since breakfast, Steve would have believed it. Everything about her was less animated, less vibrant.

But she smiled weakly at him, pushing herself up in bed. She was wearing black satin pajamas, unbuttoned at the top, an edge of steel poking out of the collar. It caught the light and Steve's eye: he'd known, for three years now, about his employer's condition, but catching a glimpse of the shape of her maimed breast through layers of fabric was different, somehow, than that hint of gleaming metal.

“Trading places, huh?” she asked, and she tugged her pajama top down, straightening it, without betraying any sort of awkwardness, which was for the best, since Steve was fairly certain he’d just managed every shade of pink imaginable. 

Steve smiled at her, and shrugged. “You had me scared a minute, there, Boss,” he answered. 

“Turnabout is fair play,” Annie retorted, raising an eyebrow at him. “You almost die on me; you can expect the same.” 

“Technically, I almost died on Iron Man,” Steve pointed out. “By the time I got to you, it was smooth sailing.” 

“Is that why your leg’s in a cast?” Annie asked, batting her eyelashes and giving him a very innocent look. 

Steve dropped into a chair. It was painful-- he had to hold onto the back of the chair and lower himself down, carefully, wincing as he sat. “Could be,” he said, shrugging. “For all I know, you smashed it up yourself while I was out so you could keep me here.” 

Annie crossed her arms over her chest, straightened up a little bit. “And why would I want to do that?” 

She was smiling, her eyes bright, amused at a joke only she knew the punchline to, and Steve wasn't entirely certain whether she was intending to flirt, or just sounded like it.

He wasn't sure if _he_ was intending to flirt, or just sounded like it.

And then he was assaulted with the fleeting notion that, God, if Howard Stark knew he was even entertaining the idea of flirting with his precious baby girl...

"What's so funny?" Annie asked, and the sound of her voice brought him back to the moment. 

"I--" He told her the truth as best as he could. "Was thinking about something your father used to say."

Annie looked away, down at the coverlet on her bed. "He told me you were one of the last great men."

Steve shook his head, tried to hide the embarrassed pride he felt at the statement. 

"I'm not," he answered. "I'm just somebody's science experiment. Your father, on the other hand..."

Annie fingered the coverlet. It bore a sharp contrast to the one in the bedroom he'd been loaned, all smooth, printed silk where the other was handmade.

"Steve," she said. "I have something to ask you, and I--" 

She took a deep breath. In her pajamas, Steve could see the rigid form of the metal plate, the way it rose and fell like a piece of machinery, the way it contrasted the organic motion of her right breast, soft and fluid.

He looked up, hoping she hadn't noticed. She gave no sign that she had, seemed too preoccupied with whatever it was she was about to ask.

"Of course," he answered.

"I want you to answer how you want," Annie said, her eyes narrowing to a suspicious squint as she looked him over. "Not because you feel badly for me, or because you think you're honoring my father's memory, none of those. I shouldn't own you."

"You don't," Steve answered, sitting a little straighter, holding his chin a little higher.

"You nearly killed yourself for that satchel," Annie pointed out. "I don't understand why you did that."

"I knew Iron Man would save me," Steve answered, automatically.

And he realized, he had known, absolutely, so certainly that it hadn't even occurred to him in the moment: he knew, like instinct, that if he fell, Iron Man would be there.

Something caught in his throat; his heart beat a little faster, and he looked back to Annie, feeling a sudden twinge of guilt.

He ran a hand through his hair, tried to regain his composure. "Was that what you wanted to ask me?" he asked. 

She snorted. "You know it's not."

He nodded. "Then what is it?"

"You said the man on the airship breathed fire," she said, carefully. "I didn't imagine that in an oxygen-deprived state, did I?"

He smiled, feeling lighter for it. "You didn't. Is _that_ what you wanted to ask me?"

"No. There's a friend I'd like you to visit," Annie replied. "With me. If you're willing."

*****1939*****

"So," said Obie, when Steve returned to the lounge at the Stane International pavilion, "How did you do with your assignment?"

Steve grinned. "Meatballs, check; pretty girl, check." He handed over a half-eaten paper cone of cotton candy, soft and pink and much too sweet to finish. 

Obie looked delighted, and he drummed his fingers against the armrests of his chair. "The meatballs were expected. The girl, not so much."

Steve raised an eyebrow, but kept his mouth shut on the subject of exactly what the girl had wanted. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Steve said. 

“Sounds dangerous,” Obie joked. 

Steve popped open a Coke bottle and dropped onto the sofa. “I know what you’re doing is important,” he said. “But I’m feeling. Well...like I could be more useful.” 

He watched as Obie shifted in his chair. “Useful, how?” he asked. “You’re a smart young man; you could manage the presentation on your own, or--” 

Steve looked down at himself, gestured helplessly at his arms. “ _Useful_ ,” he repeated. “I don’t want to just stand around; your scientists have what they need to try to re-create the serum; I could be doing real work.” 

Obie nodded, slowly, chewing on his lower lip in what Steve presumed was a thoughtful way. “Well,” he said. “Let’s see what we can come up with. In the meantime, do you want to see something?” 

“Something?” Steve asked. “I suppose that would have to depend on what the something is.” 

*

*****

"He's a robot," Steve observed, eyeing the golden man high on a pedestal above the crowd.

"He is," Obie replied. "Courtesy of our fiercest competitors at Westinghouse."

"The electrical company," Steve said, nodding. 

The announcer standing beside the robot was cheerfully demonstrating how Elektro the Moto Man could respond to simple voice commands. 

"Is he really-- can he think?" Steve asked. "Or is he simply able to respond to those commands? Like an audio switch?" 

"Excellent question," said Obie. "The question for me is, what happens when we integrate this technology into weapons?"

"Weapons?" Steve asked. 

Elektro was counting to five on his fingers. 

"What do you think this is all leading toward?" Obie asked. "They can ask the moto man to count. To smoke a cigarette. It isn't too much of a leap from there to firing a gun."

Obie was gazing at the robot with a glint in his eye, something Steve couldn't quite identify. 

"Men can think. Men have a conscience. A man powering a robot is one thing, but a robot that can be designed to kill without discrimination. And I don't want to trust that in just anyone's hands," he said, as he curled his fingers into fists. 

"But this--" Steve scratched his head. "It's a set piece. Do you really think--"

"Howard Stark built a metal suit," said Obie. "But he never did anything with it, just passed the designs on to his daughter, who outfitted some _explorer_ and has a hack write novels about it. The patents, though...the patents are with the company. And I don't know about you, but if we go to war, I'd rather see decisions being made by a pilot than a metal box with a circuit for a brain."

Steve raised an eyebrow, wondering if Obie's conviction was about ethics or profits, but then he felt a sudden pang of guilt. Erskine would have felt the same way, would have prioritized humanity; it was why he was standing there, after all.

"What do you say, Elektro?" the announcer asked. "Why don't we surprise our guests?"

"I," the robot said, in a mechanical monotone,"would. be. happy. to. oblige."

The robot's feet began to rise, and the audience oohed and aahed. It seemed to hover in midair, a few inches off the ground.

"Ah, Elektro?" said the announcer. 

Steve realized something was wrong: the announcer was twitchy, his brow furrowed, a drop of sweat trickling down his temple. 

Elektro turned toward the announcer.

"Do you see that?" Steve asked Obie.

Obie was watching impassively. "See what?"

Steve lunged for the stage. A woman nearby screamed: the crowd muttered and shouted in outrage, trying to push him back to his spot. He shoved his way forward, reaching the pedestal just as the robot opened fire.

"Surprise," said Elektro.

He pronounced the first R too much and the second R like the beginning a syllable, holding the I too long, a bizarre parody of English.

The announcer, chalk-white, had a red splotch on his clean, white shirt.

Now the audience truly panicked. Screams erupted around Steve as he hoisted himself onto the pedestal.

The robot let out a bizarre mechanical sound that Steve suspected was meant to sound like a laugh. It turned and opened fire on the crowd.

The robot had a hole in the center of its chest; the bullets came from that hole. Steve leapt up. And realized he had nothing to protect him from the spray of lead.

"Steve!" Obie shouted from the audience. "You're going to get--"

Steve ducked, spun, kicked the robot's leg out from under him, knocking the thing sideways into the air before the next round of bullets spat out of the metal man. 

The bullets shot up into the air; Steve wasnt about to wait for them to rain down on the crowd. "Ladies and gents!" He called, in his best Captain America voice. "Kindly move away from the stage and out of the pavilion!"

Some people did as he said, but most of them gaped, open-mouthed. 

For once, once, he regretted the lack of the costume.

"That man is Captain America!" came a shout. He looked up: 

A woman in the front row was bleeding; a man was lying on the ground. Steve didn't have time to worry about their condition. The robot had righted itself.

"Surprise," it repeated. "Sur. prise"

Steve grabbed at the robot's arm, wrenched it away from its frame. 

"Surpriiiiiisse."

The robot didn't seem to act differently with its arm removed from its body. Good, Steve thought to himself. The robot wasn't actually intelligent; it couldn't think for itself. It was only following orders. It was a machine with a switch, which made this much easier than it could have been. 

He whacked it with its own arm. It turned toward him and fired, full on, at point-blank range, and though he had the metal arm to shield himself, it wasn’t enough, even as he brandished it, his teeth gritted, he _knew_ it wasn’t enough, and he just hoped that none of the bullets would strike anything vital. His healing was accelerated, bullet wounds would fix themselves, but he could still lose too much blood; he could still--

But he was in the air, suddenly and without warning, just as the shots cleared the space he’d occupied only moments ago. The collar of his shirt strained and tore, hooked on something that had propelled him off the pedestal, effortlessly, six feet into the air, and he kicked about, flailing, helpless where he hung.

Then an arm snatched at him, held him by the waist. The arm was made of metal: steel, and polished to a high shine. 

“Iron Man,” he murmured, and then swallowed, hard. He’d read the pulps; he’d heard the rumors. But here-- 

“That was stupid, Captain,” said a metallic voice. This voice, unlike the Moto Man, had nuance, inflection, pronounced words like a human being.

“Sorry if you were trying to get yourself killed. I can drop you again, if you want.” 

And it apparently had an abundant grasp of sarcasm.

Elektro turned, trying to find its target, but it kept going in circles. 

Its vision was severely limited, Steve noticed. It could only see side-to-side, not up or down. It could only shoot directly in front of itself. 

“Gee,” Steve said, as he squirmed to see the rest of what was holding him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a glinting helmet, a row of perfectly-positioned rivets. “Yeah, I liked dying so much the first time, figured I’d try it again.” 

He turned back. Most of the crowd had cleared off the pavilion, though there were a few stragglers-- a young press photographer from the Bugle with a jaunty little cap who was snapping photos with the gusto of someone whose life wasn’t in danger, a man in a trenchcoat that was too heavy for this weather, and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. And Obie, who had cleared well out of the line of fire, merely staring. 

“Gotta put you down, buddy,” said Iron Man. “You take care of the announcer; I’ll take care of the tin can.” 

The next thing he knew, Steve’s feet were back on the pedestal, and Iron Man-- it _was_ Iron Man, every inch the mechanical wonder from the illustrated covers of the pulps and the slick ink drawings of the comic pages-- held a hand up, blasting what looked like a beam of light at the robot’s head. 

Elektro started to babble in broken, mechanical syllables, as Iron Man’s beam slowly melted what passed for the Moto Man’s brain. 

"You," he said, to the trembling announcer. 

“I--I--I-- I didn’t know!” the man said, huddling in a corner, the blood seeping through his shirt. 

“I believe you,” Steve assured him. “But I’ve gotta get you to a doctor-- what’s your name?” 

“H-Hank,” the announcer said, reluctantly letting Steve lift him. 

The robot was firing bullets at Iron Man; they ricocheted harmlessly off the armor. Steve paused for a moment, watching in wonder as the machine-man of his late-night reading binges thrust his arm into the robot’s middle and tore out the gun. 

Elektro, his head half-melted off, wobbled in place. 

Hank’s expression was one of torment. “I-- I _built_ him; I didn’t-- please, I didn’t even know he had a gun; I don’t know what--” 

“We’ll figure it out,” Steve promised, as he descended the pedestal with Hank in his arms.

That was when he caught Obie’s expression-- it was dark, not at all one of relief. Steve looked from Obie to the pedestal, where Iron Man had managed to completely sever Elektro’s head and turn him off. His mouth was grim; he was straightening his tie. 

Steve shook his head, trying to banish the thought that was running through his mind. 

He walked right up to Obie. “I’ve got to take this fella to First Aid,” he said. “I’ll see you later.” 

Obie nodded, then paused, and looked Steve over. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he said. 

Steve swallowed. “Thanks,” he said, and hefted Hank up again, walking toward the First Aid pavilion.

*****1942****

That night, Annie sat in the third row of the orchestra at Carnegie Hall, watching Steve with delight. He was sitting in the red velvet seat, back ramrod straight, hands clasped in his lap, his hands twitching as if he didn’t know what to do with them, as if the current of excitement were trying to escape from his fingertips. His eyes were sparkling, his cheeks glowing.

Rhodey, sitting beside her, snorted, and Annie glanced over. “What?” she asked. She looked past him: Pepper was all too happy to be back in New York with her fiancé, and she and Happy were totally absorbed with each other, and Jarvis had elected to stay home, which meant that Rhodey’s only entertainment was, well, watching her watch Steve. 

“What?” Annie asked. 

Rhodey shrugged. “Nothing,” he said, suddenly becoming very interested in the ceiling. 

He prodded her in the side with his elbow. Annie prodded him right back, and looked back at Steve, who was still beaming at the stage. 

They were seated on the aisle, of course-- it was the only place where Steve could sit comfortably with his broken leg, and Annie had already apologized twice. 

“I normally only sit in the orchestra _center_ ,” she said. 

“It’s okay,” Steve answered. “It’s-- I’ve never _been_ to Carnegie Hall.” 

“I’ve seen pictures of you at Carnegie Hall,” Rhodey said, furrowing his brow.

“I’ve never been to Carnegie Hall to _watch_ ,” Steve corrected, breathlessly. 

He stared, entranced, at the stage, looking mesmerized as the orchestra took their places. 

Annie stared, entranced, at him. 

When intermission came, the lights coming up in the house, Annie jerked her head forward with a start. She’d been so absorbed with watching the expressions on Steve’s face, as they changed fluidly with the music, that she hadn’t quite realized the the orchestra had been swelling to the climax of the piece. 

She should have known, of course she should have known, from the stupid grin plastered on Steve’s face, and the way his eyes had widened to childlike proportions. She should have known from the _applause_ that had burst out around her, but she was still startled. She immediately turned to face the stage, before Rhodey could comment again. 

Steve reached for the armrest, to push himself of out the seat, one crutch under his other arm, and his fingers wrapped around her own. It was only then that she realized she’d been clutching at the cushioned velvet herself. 

Her hand stiffened, and she looked back at Steve, who drew his own hand away, suddenly and swiftly, and locked eyes with her. 

“Sorry,” Steve muttered. 

Annie shrugged, shoving herself to her feet. “It’s just a hand,” she answered, a touch more brusque than was necessary. “I may be ready to drop dead any second, but I’m not _that_ fragile.” 

Steve winced, and looked at the floor, and murmured another apology.

When he thumped out of the theater on his crutches, he didn’t wait for her, and didn’t look back. 

Rhodey stood up beside her. “What’d you do?” he asked. “Spook him?” 

“I _didn’t_ do--” Annie said, but she cut herself off, huffed, and marched out of the theater. 

She didn’t see him in the lobby. Sighing, she slipped through the doors. The springtime weather was still slightly chill and damp, and she tugged the green velvet jacket she wore over her dress tighter around herself, pacing in the brisk air to regain composure. Her heart rate was entirely too high; she could feel the rhythm vibrating in the metal of her chest plate. She pressed a hand to it, willing it to slow, not that it would do much good.  
She breathed in just as she got to the corner, and looked up.

Steve was standing along on the Seventh Avenue side of the building, leaning on his crutches and looking up at the pretty pink brickwork. 

She cleared her throat. “I’m getting drinks,” she announced. “Do you want a drink?” 

Steve looked over with the guilty expression of someone who had been caught out doing something he shouldn’t. 

“No,” he answered. “I just needed some air.” He shot her a tight smile. “It’s really beautiful,” he said. “The music, I mean.” 

“I’ve got season tickets,” Annie answered. “Well, technically, the company has season tickets, but no one else ever uses them. So here I am. You can come back anytime.” 

“Thanks,” Steve replied. “If only my employer would give me more free time between assignments.” He raised an eyebrow at her.

It actually brought a smile to her face, and she swatted at the air. “You want me to tell your boss off for you? She sounds like a monster.” 

He laughed, and shook his head. “Part-woman, part-machine,” he said, in a low, serious voice. “Like something right outta the pulps.” 

He glanced back up at the building. “You oughta let Iron Man come, sometime.” 

Iron Man. There it was, again: Steve’s conversation always circling back to the _armor_ , to the pilot he believed was a man. 

“You’re very attached to him, aren’t you?” Annie asked. 

Steve was quiet. “He’s my best friend,” he answered, and then shook his head. “If you can be friends with somebody without knowing their name or their face.” 

She put a hand to the padding beneath the left breast pocket of her jacket, before she realized what she was doing, and dropped it. 

“If you don’t know his face, how do you know he’s not already here?” she teased, giving him an exaggeratedly quizzical look: her eyes wide, brows arched, lips puckered. 

Steve gave her a rather dry look. “Because you never let him stop working, do you?” 

Annie bristled, and she was all ready to defend herself, when the irony and sheer _absurdity_ of the situation struck her. Here, Steve was telling her, without knowing, that she worked herself too hard.

It only took her one more moment to realize the truth in what he said. 

She frowned, and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, seriously. “Try to let him out to have fun more, how’s that?” 

Steve shot her a broad smile. “Better,” he answered. “I know you don’t mean to. But I also know he’d never complain about it himself.” 

Annie swallowed. 

“You still up for our social call?” she asked. “We’re gonna have to handle it after the show; I don’t think there’s time left now.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said. He looked down at his hand, as if he were checking to see if his fingernails were clean, and then thumped back in after her.

*****

When the crowd rose for the standing ovation, Annie locked arms with Steve.

He hadn’t expected it, wasn’t prepared for it, and he jerked back on his crutches at first, before relaxing. 

“Come on,” she said, nudging him. “Let’s beat the crowd.” 

Steve did admirably well thumping up the stairs to the mezzanine, he thought, and the two of them loitered in the hallway as the rest of the audience began to filter out. Steve leaned against the wall; Annie dropped into place beside him. This time, when her arm brushed his, he didn’t leap out of his skin. 

“How’s the leg?” she asked. “Is it driving you nuts?”

“Ha,” Steve answered. “Considering I had my entire body immobilized for twenty years, one leg for a few weeks is nothing.” 

Annie laughed, but then she hid her smile behind her hand, rubbing her lip against a cut on her index finger. It left a smudge of red across her knuckle; she’d clearly forgotten about the lipstick she was wearing. Steve supposed she didn’t find much call for lipstick, knowing how her health and her work had made her all but a recluse for years.  
He wondered if he should be looking at her so closely, that he saw things like the cut on her finger, or the red stain of the lipstick on her skin, or the glimmer of the light off her teeth when she smiled.

It was only a few moments later that the door to one of the private boxes opened, and a pretty woman with dark curly hair swept up in a knot, in a plum-colored dress walked out. 

She was alone. Her expression was drawn. She looked sad. 

And then Annie took a step forward, and the stranger looked up, and her entire body relaxed, her expression opened, and she gave Annie a wide smile. 

“Annie!” she exclaimed, and stepped forward. The two women embraced without hesitation. “You’re--” She stepped back, clasping Annie’s hands, and looked her up and down. “A sight for sore eyes.” 

“Maya,” Annie said, nodding toward Steve.

Maya stopped, her jaw nearly dropping. “I know who he is,” she said, then seemed to remember herself. “Captain,” she said, stepping forward, offering him a hand. “I saw you in Obadiah Stane’s Creepy Eugenics Celebration of 1939.” 

Steve nearly choked. “I--” he started, then looked to Annie. “Well, we all know how that turned out.” 

“Steve helped Iron Man take down a killer robot, and then he agreed to work for me, instead,” Annie explained, grinning. She shot Steve a conspiratorial look, even though he wasn’t sure what they were conspiring over. 

“Well, I’ve been following the stories about you,” Maya said, nodding deferentially to Steve. “You and Iron Man, and your team...certainly have made quite the splash. Have you seen the serials?” 

Steve shrugged. “I heard Errol Flynn was too expensive for serials,” he answered. “So, no.” 

Maya looked them both over, tilting her head to one side curiously, and then back to Annie. “Are you...would you be opposed to a stop at Lindy’s?” she asked. “Or somewhere else nearby? I...there’s something I’d like your advice about.” 

“As long as I don’t have to ditch my date,” Annie said, nodding at Steve. 

“I’m your date?” Steve asked. “I thought you asked me out of pity.” His neck went warm; he hoped his cheeks weren’t turning red, but knowing his luck, they probably were. 

“Pity you weren’t my date,” Annie retorted. 

Maya didn’t look entirely convinced. She gave Steve a suspicious look. “Is he--”

“Yeah,” Annie answered. “Yeah, he is. Come on, let’s go stuff ourselves.” 

Steve hadn’t quite made out what Lindy’s was apart from some kind of restaurant until they ducked inside the bustling, neon-emblazoned restaurant and saw waiters doling out cocktails, sandwiches, and enormous slices of cheesecake. 

“You okay?” Annie asked, her arm still tucked beneath his. 

He looked down at her. “Yeah, just...sort of wish we’d had this back in my day.” 

“You can make up for it now,” Annie informed him.

There was a long line queued up to wait, but a man in a vest and bowtie came directly to Annie, kissing her on the cheek and leading them past the line and to a booth in the back corner. 

Annie slipped him a ten dollar bill. 

“Is that--” Steve glanced behind him. “Is that fair?” 

“He saw your crutches,” Annie said, patting the seat beside her in the booth. Maya slid in across from them. 

“I thought he saw your wallet,” Steve answered, but he shrugged and looked down at the menu.

He apparently didn’t need the menu, because only a few minutes later, three huge slices of cake covered in strawberries appeared in front of them, along with three pretty glasses of Irish coffee topped with thick cream.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a slice of cake. He held his fork poised over it, sucking in his upper lip as he tried to decide where to start.

“What are you waiting for, grace?” Annie asked, giving him a nudge. “Dig in.” 

He dug. 

“So, what’s the story, Maya?” Annie asked. “You looked like somebody died when we--”

Maya stopped chewing, and swallowed her mouthful of cake. “Yeah,” she said. “Look, it wasn’t pretty. I’m not--”

Her voice hitched, and Steve saw Annie grimace and reach her hands across the table to take Maya’s. 

Maya’s shoulders sagged, she looked down. “One of our researchers...compromised--” She choked on her words, swallowing. “Sorry.” 

“Extremis?” Annie asked. 

Maya’s eyes flicked up. “How did you--” 

“Steve got attacked by a firebreathing Nazi,” Annie replied, sounding entirely more cheerful than she should given the gravity of the situation.

“I don’t think he was a Nazi,” Steve said. “If he was, he was Bund. Definitely American.”

Maya’s expression tightened. “I _told_ them this would happen,” she said. “We-- it’s too dangerous; it…” She shook her head, looking down at the table. “A bunch of government bigwigs…said they wanted it, wanted our research for the _war effort_. I told them they could have it, once we got it right, it was supposed to _cure_ people; It…” 

“I know,” Annie replied. She patted Maya’s hand, sympathetically. 

“It was meant to replace limbs. For wounded soldiers. But it still had side effects,” Maya said. “It was...the test animals were dying, and when it worked...one of them exploded. One of them was so strong we couldn’t contain it; it was breaking out of cages, tanks...we had to…” She shuddered. “It wasn’t ready. I told them it wasn’t ready, that there were side effects.” 

Maya’s expression tensed. “They told me they wanted it for the side effects. I told them no, I tried to explain what would happen, if-- if--” 

She shook her head. “They said they were going to confiscate everything if we didn’t surrender the formula. I begged them for time to get it right. They gave us two weeks.” 

Maya took a long, trembling breath; she looked down at her cake, raised her fork over it. “The next day, I had everything locked up. Hidden. The day after that, a sample disappeared.”

“And the government?” Annie asked. 

“I’ve got forty-eight hours,” Maya replied. She stabbed her cake viciously. 

"So tell them it was all stolen," Annie said. "Buy yourself time."

Maya shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. "If what the, uh, your--"

She squinted at Steve, as if she were trying to recall his name. He was surprised for a moment: that hasn't happened to him in years, probably not since before the serum. Then he realized she must be struggling with what to call him.

"Steve," he supplied. "It's just Steve."

Maya pursed her lips and nodded. "If what Steve says is true--"

"It's true," he answered.

"I believe you," said Maya. "If it is...they've probably struck elsewhere, too. Who knows what they'll do next."

She finally broke down, let out a distraught sob. "If the Nazis have it..."

Annie looked helplessly at Steve. 

"We'll find it," he answered. "We'll make sure of it."

"Considering I gave you your seed investment," Annie pointed out, "I'm not about to let this go unchecked. You've got Iron Man at your disposal. I'll call him in immediately."

Steve gave her a sharp look, but Annie shrugged and raised an eyebrow, challenging him to object.

He sighed and finished his cheesecake.

Annie shoved her plate in front of him. That's when he realized she hadn't touched hers.

They left Maya at the door, Annie promising to be in touch in the morning, Maya promising to call the house if anything happened, if she heard more. 

Annie looked Steve over, then stepped back toward the maitre d'. "Let me have them call a cab."

Steve looked at the still-packed restaurant, bustling even at eleven in the evening, then at Annie in her green dress, then out at the city street, at the lights and the silhouettes of buildings against the dark sky.

"We could walk," he replied.

Annie blinked. "You've got a busted leg."

"The other one works okay," he pointed out, and only realized how silly he sounded when Annie burst out laughing. 

"Fine," she said, shaking her head. "It's just up the Park, anyway."

They walked arm in arm, and Steve tried to tell himself it was all politeness on his part. He supposed Annie didn't think anything of it, growing up in Society like he knew she had. 

"Something isn't right about this," Annie said. "The...it has to be personal. They stole tech from someone close to me, attacked my airship. It's not coincidence."

She put her free hand to her chest, to the breast pocket of her velvet jacket, where he knew the steel plate sat just below the layers of soft cloth, of padding meant to mimic a female breast.

He had a fleeting thought, an image in his head of his own fingers against the cool metal, and banished it guiltily from his head before it could do anything but make his cheeks feel warm.

"This...research Maya is doing," he said, hesitantly. "It repairs limbs?"

Annie nodded. "It repairs everything," she said. "Scarring..."

"Organs?" Steve asked.

Annie glanced up at him, sucking in a breath. She'd never reapplied her lipstick; it was smudged unevenly across her mouth.

"Yeah," she said, in a hesitant voice. "Organs, too."

"You think it could fix a human heart?" Steve asked. "Is that...is that what she was designing it for?" 

And she stopped, still, on the cobblestones of Central Park East, and unlinked her arm from his. 

“I’m scared,” she said, and her voice was soft, and quiet, and it made her sound like a child. “I’m gonna die. I don’t know what to think about, when all I do is imagine the future and I don’t have one anymore.” 

Steve didn’t know what to say to that. His parents...he’d watched his parents die, wasting away in a sickbed, first his father, then his mother and they’d both known they weren’t getting any better, but...by the time it happened, he’d been prepared. 

“You do,” he said, surprised by the fierceness in his tone. “You will."

He wanted to wrap her up in his arms, but on one hand, he suspected that wouldn't have the desired effect, and on the other, his arms were occupied with crutches. "What about the elixir?" he asked. "We still need to try it."

Annie let out a choked laugh. "There’s no elixir," she said. "There won’t be. I--” 

She shook her head, rubbing a hand over her face. “I don’t have all the ingredients. It was never going to work, anyway.” 

“What do you mean?” Steve asked. “I got the satchel; I--” He winced. “I _did_ get the satchel.” 

“Yeah, you got the satchel,” Annie replied. “Iron Man lost the unicorn horn. Or whatever it really was.”  
Steve felt his stomach twist; the cheesecake didn’t help matters. “He...lost it? Just like that?” 

Annie looked away. “He dropped it saving you. It’s what I wanted, Steve, so don’t--” 

“We can go get it,” Steve argued. “It’s got to be in the ocean. We’ll find it; as soon as we’re done here, we can--”

Annie gritted her teeth, an ugly grimace on her face. "It’s all a bunch of bullhockey anyway. Unicorn horn? Really, Steve? It was never going to work. You completed the missions; you got out alive.”

“We...that _was_ the mission,” Steve said. “We can…” He stopped, watching Annie as he shook her head. “That wasn’t the mission, was it?” 

“You really think I would be-- I'd be doing something so selfish when Europe is falling to madmen? Did you think once, when everyone was scolding you for risking your life for a bunch of--"

Steve's face went hot. "No one told me," he said, trying to rein in the temper he felt bubbling beneath the surface. "Why-- Annie, what were we doing?"

"You weren't stealing artifacts from the Nazis," Annie said. "Well, you were. But you were planting beacons."

“Beacons for what?” Steve asked. 

“Resistance fighters,” Annie replied. “Recovering stolen artifacts. You were breaking into Nazi treasure caches. The team’s too small for you to take an entire trove with you. Our team’s got better eyes, is better equipped for recon. So you go in, you leave a beacon, wrap the goods up with a bow on ‘em.” 

Steve swore under his breath. "Does Pepper know? Rhodey?"

"No, and yes," Annie answered, her voice strained. She reached for his sleeve. "Steve, please?"

"Did Iron Man know?" He asked, gritting his teeth.

"Iron Man knows everything I know," Annie replied. “Iron Man was the one doing it.” 

And the way her face looked when she said it, the way she bowed her head, the way her shoulders stopped, he couldn't realize it hadn't occurred to him before-- what was so obvious, what was right in front of him.

"Are you in love?"

Annie jerked her head up, took a faltering step back, held a hand out to the stone wall circling the park.

She squinted at him, her expression stricken, he face suddenly sharp-edged. “With _whom_?” she asked. 

“You and Iron Man,” Steve said. “You--” 

She laughed, leaning into the wall, and it caught him off-guard. “Me and Iron Man?” 

“Are you?” he asked. “I’m sorry, I know it shouldn’t be any of my business, but-- working with both of you, I think it’s fair to--” 

She crumpled, a wide grin and crinkled eyes replacing her previous, distraught, look, as she convulsed with silent laughter. 

“Steve, let’s just put it this way,” Annie said, as she regained composure, swallowed, and looked away. “Iron Man is my biggest critic. If there’s ever gonna be anyone who questions me till I can’t take it anymore, it’s gonna be him. Anyway,” she added, raising an eyebrow. “Really, Steve?” 

She met his gaze again, her face open and her eyes wide. “Have you ever seen us in the same room together?”

He thought back-- certainly not in a long time, maybe back when he first took the job. “Not recently,” he replied. 

“Does that strike you as two people who’re in love?” Annie asked, arching a brow at him. “You said he’s your best friend, don’t you think he’d _keep_ something like that from you?” 

Steve felt immediately guilty, and when he looked at Annie, she seemed hurt, her mouth and eyes drooping at the corners, her shoulders sagging again. She wrapped her arms around herself, curling her body inward. “I wish I could be everything Iron Man wanted me to be,” she said, bitterly. She looked up at Steve. “I’m letting everyone down.” 

Steve shook his head, took a limping step forward. “That’s not true. Annie, I didn’t--”

“I’m letting _you_ down,” she said, and he realized there were tears in her eyes. 

“Well, I’d damn well like to know what kind of mission I’m on in the future,” Steve said, wincing as he realized how angry he sounded. “But you’re not--” He wanted to tell her that she couldn’t let him down, that everything she’d done for him was wonderful, that she was perfect, just as she was. He realized, as he started to blurt it out, that this was the first time in three years they’d spent any prolonged time together, even if something about their interaction, about the way she related to him, that felt so natural that it seemed as if they’d been friends for years. “I don’t know you well enough for you to let me down,” he admitted, finally.

She bit her lip. “It’s just-- I want you to love me as much as you love _him_.” 

She didn’t have to say what she meant by ‘him.’ Steve knew.

“And I know,” Annie admitted, her voice rasping. “I know you won’t.” 

It was the last thing he’d expected to hear. 

“Annie,” he said. But he knew what he looked like, like a deer in headlights, here on the cobblestone walk of a street that would have been crowded at any other time of day, his eyes too wide, his lower lip trembling. 

She thrust her chin up, balled her hands into fists, and pushed herself away from the wall. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said. “I shouldn’t have-- “ She rubbed her hand at her mouth, more of her lipstick coming away, and then over her eyes, so that one of her eyelids had a sharp, bloody-looking red smudge of lipstick smears across it. Tears were dribbling off her nose. 

She squared her shoulders, and still Steve couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

“Anyway, I should go home,” she said, and started marching purposefully down the walk. “My pathetic heart is beeping at me that it’s time to plug it in, or I’ll die, and I’m sure you don’t want to clean that up.”

“Annie,” Steve said, finally finding his voice. He thumped after her.

“Have a good night,” she called over her shoulder, picking up the pace-- unfairly, he thought, but certainly all too aware that he couldn’t keep up while he was on crutches. “I won’t blame you if you decide you want a new line of work after that little outburst.” 

“ _Annie_!” Steve repeated, and her name came out as nearly a shout, this time.

He wouldn’t have caught her, but walking on cobblestones in high-heeled shoes is precarious for even the most seasoned of New Yorkers. She started walking, even faster, and her heel caught in a crack between two stones, twisted, and snapped in two. 

She fell. 

Steve dropped his crutches and lunged forward, just barely catching her by the arm. 

“Ow!” Annie gasped, as he tugged her back up. 

“Annie,” he said, again, keeping his hand on her arm as she righted herself. “You’ve got to give other people some room to talk.” 

She looked at him, pursing her lips, and then down, properly abashed. “You weren’t saying anything, Steve.” 

“I’m not you,” he said. “So--” He dropped her arm and reached for his crutches. Standing on one foot wasn’t particularly comfortable. She wobbled in place, and then bent down, removing both of her shoes, stepping down onto the cobblestones in stocking feet. 

He reached out, tentatively, ran a thumb just beneath her eyes, wiping the tears away. “Give me some room to talk.” 

“What do you want to say?” she asked. She had to tip her head up to look at him; without her shoes, the height difference between the two was laughable. She was a tiny, wispy thing, and he was...well, huge. 

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, tilting his own head down to face her. He bit his lower lip. “I might just want to kiss you.” 

She breathed in, unsteadily. “You’re not saying that out of pity?” she asked.

He smiled. “No.” 

“I’m going to die,” she reminded him. “Probably soon.” 

“I don’t care,” he assured her, and he let his fingers slide to the back of her neck, cupping her head as he drew her closer. “I already did that.”

*****1939*****

When he’d gotten the still-terrified announcer into the hands of a capable doctor and been assured that it was only a flesh wound, Steve went back to the Stane International pavilion, changed his shirt, got a tall, cold glass of lemonade, and sat down, pondering what to do next. He pulled the card out of his pocket, the one Pepper had given him, and turned it over, looking at the name and phone number.

He wasn’t going to call from inside the pavilion. 

He made his way to the AT&T pavilion, stopping as he watched a woman sitting at something that looked like a piano. A crowd circled her, and shouted out questions. 

“How are you today?” asked a man.

The woman punched at her piano. 

“I’m very well, and you?” replied a mechanized voice that blared from speakers overhead.

A woman in the crowd shouted out “Parlez-vous Français?” 

The woman at the piano smirked, and punched at it again. 

“Oui, je parle Français,” sounded over the speakers. 

Steve watched, impressed, a few moments longer, before walking up to one of the AT&T representatives and asking if there was any way he could use a telephone. 

The man stood, silent, eyes wide. “Are you who I think you are?” he asked. 

Steve grinned. “I get that a lot,” he answered. “But Errol Flynn’s a shade taller.” He put a hand up slightly above his forehead. “Just a shade.” 

The representative raised an eyebrow. “Ah,” he replied, and then looked around. “Well, anything for a veteran, Captain," he said, with a knowing smile.

Steve rang the number.

"Stark Enterprises," said a man's voice. "Jim Rhodes speaking."

Jim Rhodes. Steve immediately went tongue-tied; Jim Rhodes was the Jim Rhodes, Iron Man's right-hand man, who fought alongside him in the pulps. It had never occurred to Steve that he might be _real_.

"Hello?" Jim Rhodes repeated.

“Is-- is Miss Stark there?” Steve asked. 

“I’m afraid she’s away from her desk at the moment,” said Rhodes. “What can I help you with?” 

He didn’t have a number for her to call back. He chewed his lip. “Do you have a way to contact her? I’d like to meet with her. Today, if possible. Or tomorrow.” 

There was silence on the other end of the line. “With whom am I speaking?” asked Rhodes. 

“My name is Steve Rogers,” Steve answered. “She contacted me about a--”

All he heard was sudden, stunned laughter.

“Hello?” Steve asked. “Is everything all right?”

Rhodes had to gasp for air, before he started laughing again. “Steve Rogers,” he said.

“Yes, Steve Rogers,” Steve repeated. “I’m sorry, is there some kind of joke or--” 

“No,” Rhodes said, as he seemed to regain his composure. “No, no, not at all. I just won five dollars, is all. Steve?” 

Steve could only assume that he was the cause of Rhodes’ good luck. “Yes? Who bet I wouldn’t call?” 

“Nobody,” said Rhodes. “But Annie thought you’d take at least twenty-four hours. Meet her at the Bendix Lama Temple in thirty minutes.” 

“The--” Steve frowned. “The Bendix Lama Temple?” he asked. “Are you sure?” 

“Wasn’t my choice,” said Rhodes. “It was Annie’s.”

*****

Steve sat in a seat at the back of the ‘temple,’ a replica, the barker said, of a real, honest-to-goodness Buddhist temple in Jehol.

Inside, an oddly incongruous-- and incongruous was the word the barker had used, too-- stage lay before him. It was set with a backdrop of pink watercolor mountain, and various trees and rocks and items that, he supposed, were meant to make the whole setting seem naturalistic, but the fact that he could see the ferris wheel rising up just behind it defeated that attempt rather completely. 

The crowd began to file in, mostly men, of course, but the occasional curious woman, as well. 

A slight brunette in a man’s tailored suit stepped through the entry, and Steve recognized her instantly, out of the corner of his eye. She dropped into the seat beside him. She crossed her legs like a man, too, leaned back in her seat and stretched. She was wearing men’s shoes, too-- rather impressive black-and-white wingtips, though she had her long, dark hair down, falling in waves over her shoulders. 

She glanced sidelong at him.

“Afternoon, Captain,” she murmured, a mischievous smile playing over her red-painted lips. 

“Miss Stark,” He replied, not even trying to keep the grin from his face. He nodded toward the stage. “Looking forward to the girlie show, I trust?” 

“It’s not a ‘girlie show,’” she said, haughtily, holding her head high in the air. “This show has been approved by _Good Housekeeping_ magazine as an authentic display from the far-off land of Terpsichordian aphrodisiacs and love temptation dancers.” 

Steve coughed into his hand. “Did you memorize the barker’s spiel?” he asked. “How many times have you seen this, exactly?” 

“Four,” said Annie. 

“Why?” Steve asked, as the music struck up and a group of young women clad in nothing but high-heeled white shoes wandered onto the stage, looking more lost in the watercolor mountains than they were about to seduce any lamas away from their vows of celibacy. 

Annie grinned. “Last place anybody’s gonna look for me.” Her eyes flicked up at him. “Rhodey said you called.” 

“Yes,” Steve answered, being quite pleased to have something to look at apart from the naked women doing some sort of uncomfortable exotic dance with skulls. “And won a bet. A whole day, really?” 

“I didn’t expect there to be a killer robot,” Annie replied. “The killer robot was a game-changer.” 

“Were you there?” Steve asked. “Iron Man--” 

“No, I didn’t see it,” Annie replied. “Iron Man told me what happened, though.” 

“Lucky he was there,” Steve said. “It’s certainly a fine piece of machinery, the suit. I--” He shook his head. “It was astonishing, to see it in the flesh. Er. Metal.” 

Annie grinned, broadly. “Thanks,” she said, her eyes bright. 

“You--” Steve shook his head in wonder. “You built the suit?” 

“My dad invented it,” Annie admitted. “Twenty years ago, when I was a little kid. I’ve been improving on his designs ever since. It’s…” She screwed up her mouth, shrugged her shoulders. “My masterpiece. His legacy. Something.” 

Steve’s throat went dry. “I knew him,” he said. “Your dad.”

“I know,” Annie replied. “He used to talk about you. He’d be--” She swallowed, pursing her lips. “He’d be sorry he missed you.” 

“And the pilot?” Steve asked. For a moment, he let his imagination run wild-- suppose she was looking for a new pilot, supposed _he_ could be the man inside the suit. 

“Classified,” Annie replied. “For his own sake. The man needs a private life, some of the time. I’m sure you understand that.” 

Steve shrugged. "I take the stars and stripes off, people mostly leave me alone."

"Iron Man makes a lot more enemies than a pretty set piece in a sideshow," Annie pointed out. "Do people--" she nodded at the crowd. "Do they even believe you're the real thing?"

Steve felt oddly conflicted: his hackles raised on one hand, by the sideshow comment, but he also felt strangely impressed by the woman's assessment of the situation.

In the end, he laughed, if a little uneasily. "Not really," he answers. "But it does make for a good show."

"How would you like to do more?" Annie asked.

"More?" Steve asked. "What does more entail?"

"Working for me instead of a guy who just loosed a killed robot on a crowd of unsuspecting civilians."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "You--"

"That's why you called me," Annie pointed out. "You know he did it as well as I do."

Steve sucked in a breath. "He said the robots would be a danger, if they ever saw combat. They don't think for themselves; it's too easy to control them."

"He's right," Annie said. "He just picked a hell of a way to demonstrate it, didn't he?"

The girls on the stage had made a semicircle around one of their own, draped in floaty gauze, and were worshipping her as if she were a goddess.

"He's ruthless," Annie said. "He'll steamroll anything and anyone to make a profit, and I don't know if the worst part is that he always sounds so reasonable about doing it, or--"

She hissed, sucking in air between her teeth. "Or if it's because he's convinced he's doing it in the name of my dad's legacy."

"Your dad--" and it seemed so strange, Steve thought, saying this to a woman who couldn't be that much younger than Howard had been the last time he saw him-- "wouldn't build a killer robot."

Annie let out a guffaw, loud enough that the man in front of her turned around, looking very put out that she had interrupted his enjoyment of the girlie show. "My dad?" She asked, once she'd overcome the laughter. "Howard Stark? Did we know the same Howard Stark? Of course he'd build a killer robot."

"Fair enough," Steve admitted."he just wouldn't unleash it on civilians."

"On purpose," Annie added.

"Yes. On purpose," Steve agreed. He frowned for a moment. "So what do we do?"

Steve saw a small spark of light in Annie's eyes, and her mouth quirked mischievously. "What d'you say we blow this popsicle stand?"

*****1942****

By the time they reached the house, Annie couldn't quite believe that had been _her_ , back there, by the park. They'd walked back in silence, her feet freezing on the cobblestones, and the only thing that made her certain it had happened at all was the fact that they kept glancing back and forth at each other, sharing small, secret smiles. Steve's cheeks were flushed pink, but she was fairly sure he was standing a little taller, in spite of his crutches.

She felt a strange apprehension, a bubbling under the surface, excitement and anticipation, delight and terror. 

This was going to make everything more difficult, and she didn't care. Instead, she swung her shoes as she walked beside him, skipping now, though her energy was starting to wane.

She made her herself stop, instead hugging Steve's arm more tightly. 

When they reached the house, the lights were all dark, apart from the one in the study.

"Guess they didn't wait up for us," Annie observed as she unlocked the door. "Just Pep banging away; I'll have to ask her to help with--"

But the door snapped open from the inside. 

“Annie!” Pepper exclaimed. “Annie, you have to--”

Annie dropped Steve’s arm, starting into the house. “What exploded?” she asked. 

“Pier One-Fifteen on the Gowanus,” Pepper replied. “Rhodey and Jarvis have gone on ahead, but--” 

“One-Fifteen? That’s our petroleum reserves. And--”

“The Fire Department,” Pepper supplied. “And the U.S. Navy.” 

“It’s a strategic military target,” said Annie, biting down on her lip. “I’ll go up and get dressed; I’ll be right--”

“You’re _going_?” Steve asked, limping in behind her. “Annie, I doubt there’s anything you can do that the rest of the team can’t--” He looked to Pepper. “If it’s the same guy; they’re not going to be-- it’ll be too much on their own…Is Iron Man close?”

Annie was about to say, yes, yes they could, but Pepper shot a hard look in her direction.  
“We can’t call Iron Man,” Pepper answered. 

Steve looked down at his cast. “I can--”

“No, you _can’t_ ,” Annie snapped. “Pep, tell Happy to get the car ready; I’m going to--”

“Don’t you need to _recharge your heart_ so you don’t die?” Steve demanded angrily. “I won’t get up close; I’ll keep my shield up. I can at least tell them what to--” 

“I can’t believe,” Pepper said, the only one of the three who was even remotely calm, “that two _invalids_ are arguing over who ought to go battle a genetically-enhanced fire-breather. You’re both going upstairs.” 

“ _Pep_ ,” Annie snapped. “I can do it; my heart’s at twelve percent power.” 

The beep in her ear told her that it was at five. 

Pepper’s arm rose with a snap, her finger pointing at the stairs. “Up.” 

Annie gritted her teeth, curled her fingers into fists, and then, just as she was about to launch into another argument, her knees went weak. 

Pepper caught her by the waist. “Steve,” she said. “The spare generator is in the kitchen.” 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Annie objected weakly, as Steve went for the generator. “I’m at at _least_ four percent” 

“That’s not twelve, Annie,” Pepper pointed out, as she dropped Annie onto the leather sofa in the study. “That’s a third of twelve.” 

“It’s twelve percent of thirty-three,” Annie grumbled. “More or less. What’s the situation at the pier, Pep? Do we actually know if it’s--” 

“They targeted your ship, and your fuel reserves,” Pepper said. She looked behind, over her shoulder. “You _still_ haven’t told him,” she said, arching her eyebrow pointedly at Annie.

Annie shrank into the sofa. “I haven’t had the chance,” she said. She took off her jacket, laying it over the back of the sofa. 

“Tonight?” Pepper asked. “You’ve been gone for hours. Annie, you’ve got to tell him. This isn’t fair to anyone.” 

“I will,” Annie said, ducking her head down, not meeting Pepper’s eyes. “I was going to, Pep. We went to talk to Maya, and we were coming home--”

“Walking, I see,” Pepper observed, crossing her arms over her chest as she nodded at Annie’s stocking feet. “Am I going to have to stop writing adventure stories and start in on the romantic farce?” 

Annie swallowed, and gave her a pained look. “I tried to,” she said. “I was going to tell him, and then--” 

“And then what?” Pepper asked. 

“I told him I was in love with him instead,” Annie admitted to her knees. “Pep, he’s... the minute he knows, he’s going to-- it’ll compromise him in the field. He won’t want me going--”

“Of course I don’t want you going,” Steve said, as he awkwardly hefted the generator under one arm while attempting to manage the crutches, which led to a sort of screeching sound in between the thumps as the rubber bumpers slid across the wood floor. “Annie, you’re--” He looked worriedly at her. “Rhodey and Jarvis have suits. They’re used to this sort of thing. There’s nothing you’ll be able to do there right now that they can’t already.” 

Annie gave him a sulky look, then looked up at Pepper. “You see?” 

Steve lowered the generator awkwardly to the floor. “Do you need anything else?” he asked. 

His tone was easy, but it was feigned; Annie could tell there was a strain behind it. She shot him a look, a challenge, a warning that he wasn’t to go to the scene of the explosion on his own, not without her.

He glared right back, raising an eyebrow, as if daring her to stop him. 

She consoled herself with the fact that it would take him almost an hour to get to the Gowanus by car. 

Pepper, meanwhile, looked between both of them, her lips puckered. “As a matter of fact, yes. I ought to man the radio; Steve, Annie can show you how to help her with that.” 

“I don’t nee--” Annie started to grumble. There was another beep. That was probably three percent. She snapped her mouth shut. 

Pepper gave her a wry look, swinging her marmalade hair behind her as she sauntered out of the room. 

Annie sighed, and then felt herself fold, felt her resistance crumble as exhaustion crept over her. “I don’t really need help,” she said to Steve. “If you want to--here, just give me the cables…” 

She reached a hand out, and Steve looked at it, considering, bending over awkwardly to lift the cables. He started to hand them to her, and then shrugged. “I don’t mind,” he said. “Helping, I mean. Might be useful for me to know how.” 

Annie glanced down at the neckline of her dress. It was high, nearly to her clavicle, to hide the scarring. “It’s ugly,” she said, looking back to him hesitantly. 

Steve shook his head. “I don’t mind. Probably seen worse.” 

She steeled herself, a cold shock running through her, and then turned on the sofa. “Unbutton me?” she asked. 

He seemed hesitant as he sat down beside her, laying the cables beside him, arranging his plastered leg out on the ottoman. When his hands reached for the pearl buttons that ran up the back of her dress, he unfastened them slowly, carefully, almost with reverence, and when he’d finished, he peeled away a corner of the satin, brushed his knuckles delicately over the base of her neck. 

She realized, a moment later, that he’d kissed them before he did it, and suddenly, the hair on her forearms was standing on end.

She stayed where she was, facing away from him, as she peeled down the bodice of her dress, let the fabric fall to her waist. The air in the room was too cold; she shivered and pulled her arms in front of her, then held a hand up. 

“Cables, please?” she asked. She reached for a key on a chain around her neck with her other hand. A few moments later, there was a click, and she eased the plate open. 

Steve handed her the cables. 

She had meant to show him, really meant to show him what her heart looked like, never mind that she was half-naked, because there was nothing attractive about steel and scars. She had meant to show him how to plug the cables in, but now she did it herself, clamping them to the apparatus within. 

“Turn on the box?” she asked. 

The cushion shifted as Steve leaned over. She expected him to look up, at least try to steal a peripheral glance at her mutilated chest, but he didn’t; he kept his eyes on the generator, flipping the switch.

The current from the generator made her twitch slightly as it entered her chest, but her body reaquainted itself with the sensation quickly, these days, and she relaxed. 

“Is there anything else I can do?” Steve asked. 

She laughed, softly, in spite of herself. “I could use a blanket,” she said. “There’s one on the rocker, sorry to make you get up.” 

“Technically,” Steve pointed out. “Pepper’s the one making me get up.” He thumped his way to the rocking chair, lifted the crocheted afghan, and delivered it to the sofa. 

He still managed to stay behind her as he sat down again, and draped the blanket over her shoulders. 

“Like that?” he asked. “Is that--” 

She nodded and tugged it in closer. “You can take my hair down,” she suggested, realizing that she was slowly running out of ideas. 

His fingers found the pins in her hair one by one, and if she pretended that he was running his fingers through her hair without reason, she didn’t tell him that. 

“What did Pepper want you to tell me?” he asked. 

She shook her head; her hair spilled down over her shoulders. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing you don’t already know.”

*****1939*****

“So here’s the deal,” Annie said, as they were strapped tightly into their cushioned seat.

She pulled an envelope from her jacket pocket. The name ‘Steve Rogers’ was handwritten on the outside; inside was a small collection of documents. They were dated, with lines for signatures at the bottom of each one. One half of the signatures had already been filled in, with “Annie Stark, President, Stark Enterprises,” printed neatly beneath.

She fumbled in her pocket for a pen, drew one out: a silver ballpoint with her father’s initials on it. 

“It’s a contract,” Steve observed. 

“Standard nondisclosure agreement, no-compete, release from wrongdoing in the event of an injury, accident, death, etcetera,” Annie answered. “I have to have my bases covered before I fill you in on the details.” 

“This is…” Steve thumbed through the papers. “Long. For a, uh…” He looked around, as the slowly rose into the air. “The injury and death bit doesn’t include carnival rides, does it?” 

She smiled. “No, just line-of-work-type stuff,” Annie assured him. “Rhodey wrote it. You can trust it to be fair; he signed one, too, and he’s very thorough?” 

“Jim Rhodes?” Steve asked. “War Machine?” 

“War Machine,” Annie confirmed. 

“Is a real person,” Steve said. He let out a low whistle, and Annie nearly laughed. He turned to look at her. “And so’s Iron Man.” 

“And you’re looking at their boss, and she’s offering you a job. I pay better than the military, and probably better than Stane, too. And,” Annie grinned, eyeing Steve with eagerness as she let slip the next enticing morsel. “You’ll get to live on an airship.” 

Steve blinked. “Is that why we’re on a parachute jump right now?” He asked. “Is this a test?” 

“Maybe,” Annie said slyly. “You’ve got until we reach the top to sign.” 

Steve looked away, out over the edge of their seat. In the time they’d been conversing, they’d risen most of the way to the top; they could now see out over the entirety of the fair, see the gleaming white of the Trylon and the Perisphere, like some kind of futuristic mosque and minaret. 

He curled one hand around the bar that latched in front of them, leaned forward just slightly, looking below.

Then he looked back to Annie, took the cap off the pen, and signed. 

He held the papers out to her, gripping them tightly. “Is the contract void if these blow away?” he asked. 

Annie snatched them, and, not certain she had enough time to put them away properly, squirmed up just slightly, and sat on the contract, then flashed Steve a grin.

“Welcome aboard, Captain,” she said. 

They stopped, dangling at the top of the steel structure, the sun low and bright in the afternoon sky. Their eyes met, and a conspiratorial smile passed between them, and Annie felt a little jolt of excitement. 

And then, without warning, the parachute plummeted toward earth. 

They both shouted with glee, Annie throwing her hands up in the air, her hair flying everywhere, mussed by the wind. 

It was a controlled drop, not sharp, safe compared to most of the falls Annie had taken, but there was something exhilarating about it, nonetheless. She knew there were cables holding them in places, slowing the speed of their fall,but she looked over at Steve: Steve, who she knew had been in combat, knew had parachuted for real, was looking all around with a kind of childlike wonder, his mouth open and his eyes bright.

She burst into laughter, laughter that felt like relief, and then they were at the bottom, their seat giving a tiny bounce as it settled, and the ride attended was unbuckling them, and Annie picked up the contract and tucked it away. Then, on impulse, she grabbed Steve's hand. He seemed startled, and pulled back for an instant before his fingers relaxed into her grip. His hand was huge, easily fifty percent larger than her own, and warm, and surprisingly soft for someone who had served in combat. 

She tugged him along, grinning giddily at him over her shoulder, making a beeline for the Ferris wheel, when a familiar shadow crossed her path and stopped her dead in her tracks. 

"Mr. Stane," Steve said, as he dropped Annie's hand. He sounded firm, but there was an edge of uncertainty to his tone. 

"I was going to ask if you'd join me for dinner, Steve," said Obie, and he looked from Steve to Annie, hands on his hips, with the disapproving expression of a parent with a naughty child. "But I see you're otherwise engaged." 

"Yeah, well," Steve said. "Forgive me if I'm not exactly keen on working for a fellow who opens fire on a bunch of civilians."

Obie raised an eyebrow. "No one was killed," he said.

"Because your weapon was neutralized," Steve said.

But Obie wasn't looking at Steve. Obie was looking directly at Annie, eyes so sharp it was if they were boring into her skull. She tried not to cringe. 

"And who made sure the elements were in place to make that happen?" Obie asked. 

"As if you can claim credit for Iron Man," Steve snapped. He was visibly agitated, his cheeks bright with anger, a hand hovering at Annie's back as if he expected to have to shove her down at any moment. 

Obie chuckled, low, at the back of his throat. "Hardly," he said, and his voice was velvet, with a touch of threat behind it. "We all know who's responsible for that. Annie, Annie, my love, appreciate what I was trying to do, that it was me, before Westinghouse deployed those abominations in Europe and left it to the Nazis to try. Come back and work for me; we'll build armor for human pilots. You know we're on the same side, here."

"I know you'd turn around and sell to the Nazis," Annie answered him coldly. "If they were the highest bidder."

Obie shook his head, looking disappointed. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he said. "Your father would understand."

She wanted to punch him, all two hundred pounds of him, nearly twice her size and almost all tall as Steve. Instead, she spun on her heel.

"My father got himself _murdered_ ," Annie snapped, as she began to stalk away. "Come on, Steve."

*****1942****

Steve snapped his head up, disoriented for a moment, blinking in the pale light of early morning. He was sitting up; he put a hand to his side-- the seat was leather. Annie's head was resting in his lap, her hair loose and wild from sleep, the blanket he'd fetched for her still wrapped over her shoulders. The generator still sat on the floor, the cables coiled carefully in crazy eights.

He rubbed at his eyes, patted her head a little hesitantly, unsure if he really had _permission_ to do that, and then noticed that she had, clearly, at some point in the night, changed into silk pajama pants and one of those men's undershirts she appeared to love.

He realized he couldn't really move without disturbing her, so he sat, trying to stay as still and silent as possible, and watched her sleep. She was curled up on her side, tightly, like a cat, so that her entire body fit on half the sofa, and she was turned to face him, her nose a whisper away from his bellybutton, her breath warm through his shirt every time she exhaled.

He put a hand on her shoulder, which seemed safe enough, particularly now that he knew she was wearing clothing under that blanket, and she stirred, snuggling closer, curling into the warmth of his lap. 

He let his fingers stray upward, combing through her hair. It was thick and fine, and the loose curls fell apart easily at his touch. 

Footsteps sounded, the floorboard creaking in the hall. 

Annie shifted again, nuzzled against him, and then her eyes flicked open.

Annie looked up at Steve and smiled, sleepily. “Hi,” she said, stretching out, her bare toes flexing over the arm of the sofa. 

He put a hand to her cheek. “Hi,” he replied. “Did you go out last night?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Annie shook her head. “You fell asleep. I went upstairs and changed and came back down to keep you company.” 

“While I was _asleep_?” Steve asked. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or incredulous; perhaps he was both.

Annie grinned up at him, and tapped him on the chin. “You’re just as cute, and you don’t mess it up by opening that trap of yours.” 

“Annie?” Rhodes called. 

Annie picked herself up, curled her feet under her, leaned against Steve’s side. 

“In here!” Annie answered. 

Steve gave her an uneasy look and started to shift away, but Annie tugged him closer. “It’s just Rhodey,” she said. “He’s probably _expecting_ it, anyway.” 

Steve blinked, but slung his arm around her shoulders. “Am I the only one who didn’t ex--”

“Yep,” Rhodes answered, as he tossed a newspaper into Annie’s lap. 

_TRAIL OF FIRE ROCKS NEW YORK_ said the front page headline. _SIX EXPLOSIONS IN 24 HOURS_

“Well, fuck me with a rusty railroad spike,” said Annie, as she tapped the paper, then handed it off to Steve and wriggled away from his arm, getting to her feet. “You should have woken me.” 

Steve blinked rapidly, trying not to wince at her choice of swears.

“Pepper said you were a mess last night.”

“That was at least six hours ago, Rhodey,” Annie scolded, twisting her hair into a sloppy knot as she snatched up a pin from the side table and fixed it precariously in place. “And the Pier? What did you and J turn up?” 

“We got there late,” Rhodey replied. “We need upgrades, Annie; you know our suits aren’t as good as--” 

“Iron Man’s the only one with the right kind of power source to get up to those speeds,” Annie interrupted, and she looked over her shoulder at Steve. “I’ve got to take care of this,” she said. “I’ve got to make sure Iron Man gets--”

Steve nodded, pushing himself, very gingerly, to his feet. “I’ll come with you,” he said, stretching his back before he picked up his crutches. 

“I can’t--” Annie started, and then she looked to Rhodes. “Rhodey, can you get Steve up to date on the recent attacks? See what you can piece together, what they’re targeting besides, obviously, my ability to travel. I’m going to pay a visit to Maya’s lab. I’m going to dress. Tell Happy to have the car ready.” 

She shuffled her bare feet for a moment, and then turned to Steve, grabbing a handful of his shirt as she tugged him down to kiss him goodbye. “I’ll be back in time for dinner,” she said, walking purposefully out of the room. 

There was a long silence between the two men after she left, both watching her disappear, then turning to look at each other, and Steve got the uncanny feeling he was being sized up. 

“You expected it,” he said,finally, and Rhodes snorted, looking entirely too amused, which Steve supposed should be a consolation. 

“Cap,” Rhodes answered. “I’ve expected it since you called me up looking for a job.” 

“That’s...very prophetic of you,” Steve observed. 

Rhodes shrugged. “I just know Annie. Come on, let’s go do as the lady says.” 

He clapped a hand to Steve’s back and led him to the dining room, where Pepper was sitting with a bowl of strawberry shortcake, her spoon clinking against the crystal. Jarvis had his feet up on the pretty lace tablecloth, an egg sandwich in one hand and another copy of the paper in the other.

“Where’s the lady of the house?” Jarvis asked. 

“She’s going over to FuturePharm with Happy,” Rhodes said. 

Pepper was up like a shot. “Oh, not on her own, she’s not,” she replied. “If that’s what she thinks. I’ll spot her, boys, before she goes and gets herself and my future husband killed.” 

She marched out of the room, leaving her strawberries and biscuits behind. 

Steve and Rhodes both sat down at the table, while they pored through the information they had. Jarvis had also apparently been up early, talked to the Port Authority and the NYPD. 

Most of the explosions had happened in industrial areas after the workday was over. They’d destroyed property, resources, vehicles...though there were a few reports of charred bodies found in locations curiously far from the sites of the explosions. 

“The only thing all these targets have in common,” Jarvis said, as he handed the other two a list, “is that they’re all somehow tied to Stark Enterprises.” 

“Somebody has it out for Annie?” Rhodes asked. “But they haven’t hit the house; they’re not going after her personally. And these aren’t all _hers_. Most of them are clients, or business partners, or...they’re all...warehouses, labs, the pier, an assembly line...It’s got to be about business.” 

“Or the war,” Steve added darkly, remembering the Nazi uniform. “Anybody see any more swastikas?” 

“Not yet,” Jarvis answered. “It’s also possible they’re trying to steal something.” 

“Tech?” Steve asked. 

“It’s _always_ tech,” replied Jarvis, with the long-suffering tone of someone who had been retrieving stolen tech for multiple generations of Starks. 

“Look,” said Rhodes. “I’m going to put all Annie’s holdings on high alert and call anybody we’ve got a contract with. J, get the suits tuned up. Steve--” 

They all frowned at Steve’s cast.

“Boost morale?” Steve suggested weakly. 

Rhodes gave him a frown, then looked back down his list. “Visit the foreman of this lab, here, in Long Island City?” He tapped at the article, then jotted down an address. “See if he can tell you what they were working on. Get dressed; I’ll call you a cab.”

*****1939*****

“It’s unconventional,” Annie admitted, as she passed Steve the little bag of roasted peanuts she’d purchased.

The sun was setting; Annie’s cheeks had two spots of pink from a long day in the sun, but her energy didn’t seem to have flagged at all. 

“Unconventional...how?” Steve asked. He popped a peanut in his mouth; they were the sweet kind, covered in sugar that melted into a hard shell, and it crunched between his teeth. 

“Well, you’ve read the pulps,” Annie pointed out. She snagged the bag back from him, took a few more peanuts out. 

“So you’re telling me you go around the world rescuing mystical treasures from superpowered Nazis?” Steve asked. 

Annie grinned. “Yes,” she said, and she waved for him to follow her. “Come on.” 

It was easy to keep up, Steve’s stride must have been twice Annie’s. 

“And, ah…” Steve asked, angling his reach over her shoulder for more peanuts. “What exactly is _my_ job supposed to be?” 

“I don’t travel,” Annie said. “I can’t, because of my heart condition. “The team is Rhodey, who you know, Pepper, who is _technically_ Frank Finlay--”

“Frank Finlay’s a woman?” Steve asked, arching an eyebrow. 

Annie led them out the main gates of the fairgrounds, and out north past the elevated train line, toward Flushing Bay. 

“You met her,” Annie replied. “Tall, redder hair than Rita Hayworth, freckles?” 

Steve almost choked on a peanut. “Miss _Potts_?” he asked, coughing up the peanut skin. “Miss Potts is the bestselling author of--”

“The last three installments of the Marvels series, since Mr. Munsey passed away,” Annie answered. “What are you looking like that for? You don’t seem worked up that I build robotic armor, but a _girl_ writing adventure stories is in a different league?” 

“I just...well,” Steve said. “The name and all. I thought he was a real fellow.”

“Oh, she’s about as real as they come,” Annie answered. “She’s just a lady. And then there’s Jarvis.”

“Edwin Jarvis,” Steve said, nodding. “I met him, in the war.” 

“My dad’s old assistant,” Annie confirmed. “He was the first Iron Man pilot, back when Howard was testing them. He still drives one some of the time,” Annie replied. “And he goes with the crew; he does the maintenance and upkeep.” 

The lush parks gave way to tumbledown-looking buildings. Annie paid them no mind; she kept walking. 

“And of course, Iron Man, whom you’ve now met,” Annie said. 

“Well. Very briefly,” Steve agreed. 

“Well, I’ll make sure you have plenty of time to get to know him better,” Annie replied. “After all, you’ll be in close quarters, once you’re airborne.”

“Air--”

The street they were walking down ended abruptly, opening onto a wide, empty field. 

Empty, that is, apart from an impressive structure floating a few feet off the ground, tethered to the earth and bobbing gently. 

Steve stood, stock-still, looking up at the dirigible. “It’s--- it’s real,” he said, mesmerized. “It’s all real.” 

“Won’t you step into my parlor?” said Annie. She grinned, and grabbed his hand again, thrusting two fingers in her mouth the whistle, high and shrill, like she was calling a taxi. 

A gangway unfolded, leading up to a door in the gondola, and Annie looked back at him, glowing with pride, her chest puffed up a little, her grin as wide as her face, and led him aboard.

Inside, the dirigible was appointed as if it were a proper home: the central area housed a sofa, two upholstered chairs, and a dining table. There was art on the walls and curtains on the windows. 

"You live here?" Steve asked wonderingly, turning a circle to take it all in. 

"I wish," Annie replied. "I've got a miniature engine in my chest; I have to recharge it every twelve hours. Makes travel a bit complicated."

She tapped, just above her left breast; there was a distinctly solid sound that didn't normally come from human flesh.

"And that's what--" Annie looked up at him, intent, hopeful. "What I'd like your help with. I've been sending my team on missions to recover stolen property for the Nazis...for myself and others. You'll be equipped for combat, and have all the resources you need, and a mandate to intercede to protect civilian lives. Until there's actually a war-- which there will be, believe me--"

"You sound sure," Steve said, shifting uneasily as he inspected a curio cabinet full of porcelain dolls. "The last war was chaos, horror. I'd like to think cooler heads will prevail."

"You haven't seen the Nazis in action." Annie said grimly. "And when you do, you're going to want to do more than the U.S. Government is gonna let any of us do. Which is why we stick to intercession. But your chief mission-- at least for now-- is recovering artifacts."

Steve chanced a look down, at the place where Annie's chest plate was located. It looked ordinary enough, beneath layers of clothing-- and padding, he supposed. That would do it. 

“You mind me asking what happens to those artifacts once we get them?” Steve asked. 

“Return them to the original owners, of course,” Annie said, so straight-faced it was as if she were challenging him to question her integrity. “Or museums, collections…” 

A small smile played over her lips. “In fact, there’s one on board we could return right now.” 

She gestured for him to follow her, down a narrow hall, toward a safe that sat at the far end of the gondola. She tapped it with her knuckles; it echoed, metallic and musical. “Ultra-light for air travel,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself. “Tempered steel.” 

She dropped to one knee, fidgeted with a contraption that Steve assumed must be a lock, though it didn’t look like any lock he’d ever seen, equipped with a circuitboard and a resistor. It beeped, and she swung the door open.

“I’ve been holding onto this for a while,” Annie admitted. “But that’s not my usual M.O., just so we’re clear. It’s just that I’ve been having some difficulty locating the owner.”

“But,” she said. 

She turned, a wide grin on her face, and held out Steve’s shield.

It was like a shock to his system, seeing it like that, the silver of the vibranium gleaming from beneath the pitted paint. 

“I--” His eyes pricked with tears, and he held a finger out, just one, like a child daring to touch an antique vase. 

“Go ahead,” Annie said, as she pressed it toward him. “It’s yours.” 

“Where did you-- how did you--” Steve said, blinking as he hefted it on his arm. The weight was still familiar; the metal cool to the touch, light, brilliant even after all these years. 

“My dad,” Annie replied. “He snatched it after you fell. Didn’t want anybody else to take it. The government...they tried to get some guy to fill in in your costume, for a while, but that didn’t take. Howard didn’t want anyone else to have it.” 

He pressed his palm to its surface, swept his hand over it in a circle. “Thank you,” he said, looking from the shield to Annie’s shimmering face. Her hands were clasped in excitement; her eyes dancing with joy. 

“Welcome home, Cap,” she said.

*****1942****

“Thank you so much for coming,” Maya said gratefully, as she pulled off her safety glasses, propping them up on her forehead. “I don’t-- have you listened to the radio?”

Maya looked tense, fraught, fidgety her eyes were flicking around, as if she couldn’t focus on anything.

“You heard from Uncle Sam again?” Annie asked. 

Maya shook her head. “No,” she answered. “No, they---” She winced. “I don’t think they know it’s _my_ project. I don’t--I don’t know if I should go to the cops, if I should tell somebody, make sure everyone knows this is Extremis at--”

She grimaced. “I wasn’t even sure it was Extremis until I saw the corpses. Those aren’t people who died in a fire. Those are people who were attacked and _set_ on fire.” 

“Yeah,” Annie agreed, swallowing. “Look, Maya, I have a proposition for you.” 

Maya gave her a sharp look. “I can’t. You know I can’t. Annie, you see what it does; I don’t trust--” 

“I want to study it,” Annie said. “You’re going to lose it all tomorrow, anyway. One vial, and your research. Can you do that for me? I need it, Maya. If I’m going to send Iron Man after this lunatic, I need to be able to explain what he’s up against.” 

She could see the mix of emotions on Maya’s face, the way Maya bit down on the inside of her cheek. 

“I’ll work on it here,” Annie offered. “If you don’t want it to leave the lab.” 

Maya look a long, deep breath, and then finally conceded, with a short, terse nod. “You can use Laboratory F,” she said. “Follow me.” 

Maya took her down a long stairway, till they were well below ground. Down here, long shelves lined the walls-- storage, it seemed, crates and containers and canisters. Maya moved to one shelf, pressed down on it, and the shelving unit it belonged to swung inward, into a vault. 

“I have to tell them,” Maya said. “Don’t I? I’ve got to go to the authorities before they decide to try this on soldiers; it’s--” 

There was a strain in her voice, then in cracked. “It’s too dangerous,” she said. 

When she turned back to Annie, her face was streaked with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You know I was only trying to help.” 

“Yeah,” Annie said, quietly. “Yeah, I do.” 

Maya held out a single vial. There were only a few drops of liquid inside. Black, viscous and pearlescent, it danced with rainbows in the light, like crude oil. 

Annie held her hands open, accepting it reverently, like she was taking communion. “This is it, then?” she asked. 

Maya nodded. “That’s it.”

“It’s sort of beautiful,” Annie observed. 

“Isn’t that true of anything terrifying?” Maya asked, sadly.

*****1939*****

Pepper arrived at the airship with her fiancé in tow-- a man just as broad-shouldered and nearly as tall as Steve, with sandy brown hair and a wide, angular jaw and hook nose that made him look like spitting image of Dick Tracy.

“Happy?” Steve asked, as he shook the man’s hand. He looked him up and down, getting his measure, and wondering, briefly, if perhaps _this_ was Iron Man. 

“Pleased to meetcha, Cap,” said Happy, and he grinned, broadly, and gave Steve a thump on the back as if they were already old friends. 

“It’s Steve,” said Steve. 

Rhodes showed up a few minutes later, and greeted them by holding out a hand to Annie to collect his winnings, while he flashed Steve a grin. “I knew it,” he said eagerly. “So, Annie, when are we gonna get him in a suit?” 

“No suit,” Annie said, shaking her head. “I’ve read his files; the suit would only slow him down.” 

Steve met Jarvis, who offered to let him see some of Howard’s old journals from the Project Rebirth trials, the ones Annie had managed to rescue from Obie’s clutches. 

“Where’s Iron Man?” Steve asked. 

“I sent him to do a little recon after that fight,” Annie explained. “See if there’s any way we can pin it on Obie definitively, this time.” 

“This time?” Steve asked.

“He’s been pulling this kind of bullhockey since Annie was a kid,”Jarvis explained. “The minute Howard was out the door, everything was money, money, money. You know, it was useful when Howard was alive, the man’s head was in the clouds too much; Obie kept him down to earth. But the two of ‘em balanced each other, and I don’t know if Obie needed Howard to keep him on a leash, or he just went power-hungry when Howard died, but it changed the company forever.”

“We’ve just never been able to prove it,” Rhodes added, shaking his head. 

“We will now,” Annie said. 

She went to the refrigerator-- the _dirigible_ was equipped with an electric refrigerator and a deep freeze, things Steve had only barely become acquainted with-- and pulled out a bottle of champagne, popping the cork and pouring the golden liquid into teacups, passing them around the room. 

Steve had his teacup half-hoisted in the air before he realized that Annie was toasting him, and he blushed, looking bashfully at his feet while the others sang his praises. 

Annie and Happy left soon after, and Rhodes led Steve down a hall, showing him to his new cabin. It was small, of course, being that there wasn’t much square footage in the gondola, but prettily appointed, with a real bed, and an electric light for reading, certainly better accommodations than anywhere he’d slept in the war. There was a hook above the bed-- a two-pronged hook that looked as if it had been made to hold the straps of a shield. Steve reached for his shoulder, pressed his fingers against the worn leather harness. There was a set of drawers built in beneath the bed, and he got to one knee to open them-- discovering they’d already been fitted out with clothing, towels, a shaving kit...

“Everything ship-shape?” asked a voice behind him. It took him a moment to parse the words; the voice sounded odd, fuzzy, metallic, like the piano at the AT&T pavilion, or--

He smiled before he even turned around. 

“Iron Man,” he said, getting to his feet. 

And there was the suit, in all its metallic glory. This time, there were no distractions. He stared, unabashedly, in awe of the work. 

“Captain,” Iron Man said. He couldn’t tell if Iron Man was assessing him with the same thoroughness; the man wore a faceplate that obscured his eyes. 

“Sorry,” Steve said. “You’re, uh-- It’s even more impressive close up.” 

Iron Man made a noise that Steve supposed was a snort. “I’m just the pilot,” he answered. ‘Tell that to the lady.” 

“Hm.” Steve tilted his head to one side, eyeing the joints, the way the shoulders were riveted to the chestplate, the shape of the helmet, the tiny, meticulous details of the gauntlets. 

“She’s really something else, isn’t she?” he asked. 

“Miss Stark?” Iron Man asked. “She’s...ha, well, something else is one way of putting it.” 

“I met her, once,” Steve said, as he followed Iron Man into the hall, locking the door behind him with the special key Rhodes had given him. 

Iron Man was silent for longer than Steve had expected. “Really?” he asked. “Did you?” 

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “When she was a tiny kid. Twenty-four years ago.” He chucked. “I feel like a goon bringing it up; she wouldn’t remember. It was during the Project Rebirth trials,” he explained. “Howard had to bring her to the lab. And he was...taking measurements, trying to get the machines all calibrated; he put her in my lap.” 

He smiled at the memory. “She was…she had all this hair. She was nothing but eyes and hair, and a little red jumper, and she kept trying to teach me how to do algebraic equations.” 

Iron Man, walking down the hall, stopped, and looked back at Steve. “I didn’t re-- realize you would have...but of course, it makes sense.”

“At three,” Steve said, remembering the child’s sticky fingers and her complex grasp of multiplication. “Three years old, and she was this incredible little kid. She thinks I’m only here because of her father, but...I want to see what kind of mind she has, now.” 

Iron Man nodded toward the gangway. “Come on,” he said. “I want to go back to the fair.” 

Walking the fairgrounds with an enormous metal man wasn't quite the same experience as walking with a tiny woman, no matter how eccentric her choice of dress. People kept stopping them, asking questions, posing for photos. Tiny children would wander up curiously, and either burst into tears or attach themselves to Iron Man's leg, which Iron Man seemed to bear quite patiently. 

One boy-- a bigger boy-- threw a baseball at the armor. Steve saw it coming well before it hit; he lunged forward, not really thinking about the fact that the ball would most likely glance harmlessly off the suit. 

But Iron Man's arm snapped up, lightning fast-- so lightning-fast that Steve really wondered if a suit would slow him down. Iron Man caught the ball with a loud clank, and Steve heard the collective gasp of the crowd around him. 

"Hey, Kid," said Iron Man, as he wound up like a pro ballplayer. "Catch." 

The boy's face went white, and he began to back away, clearly anticipating the possibility that this metal man was about to lob a one hundred mile per hour fastball in his direction. 

Iron Man, however, tossed it at a perfectly respectable speed for a little leaguer. It dribbled to the ground, bounced, and rolled toward the boy. The crowd laughed, then applauded heartily.

Iron Man took a little bow.

Steve raised an eyebrow as they continued to walk. The sky overhead was dark now, but the fairgrounds were now illuminated by thousands upon thousands of lights.

Iron Man walked with purpose, as if he had a destination in mind. 

"Where are we go--" Steve began to ask, before he noticed the Stane Industries pavilion up ahead. "Ah," he said. "I take it you found something."

"I did," Iron Man answered. "But I want to give him the chance to come clean of his own accord."

"You think he will?" Steve asked.

"The hell I do," said Iron Man. "But at least I can be the better man about it. He wasn't always bad."

Iron Man was quiet for a moment. "At least, that's what people keep telling me."

"So what do we do?" Steve asked. "Obie saw me with Annie; they're not going to welcome me back there with open arms. And, well." He looked Iron Man over with some amusement. "As discreet and inconspicuous as you are, there's always the slim chance someone might recognize you."

Iron Man chuckled. It was a tinny, broken sound, but enough like a genuine laugh. "Should I put on a mask, you think?" he asked cheerfully.

"Oh, yeah," Steve said. "A mask might help. Cover up that distinctive nose of yours."

“I’m gonna ask to see Stane,” said Iron Man. “Can I...ask you to get something for me? From inside? Like you said, sneaking isn’t exactly my forte.” 

Steve looked the building over, sucking in a breath. “Yeah. I go in, tell them I’m here to pick up my things?” he offered. 

Iron Man nodded. “Plausible enough.” 

“What do you need me to do?” 

“His office,” Iron Man said. “On his desk, there’s a paperweight shaped like the moon. 

“Alright,” Steve replied. 

“And there’s a pen,” said Iron Man. “Sterling silver, embossed with the initials H.A.W.S.” 

“Haws?” Steve asked. 

“Howard Anthony Walter Stark,” Iron Man replied. 

“Howard’s pen?” Steve asked. 

“And his paperweight.” 

Steve frowned. “I hate to ask, but what do Howard Stark’s desk accessories have to do with--” 

“Annie wants them back,” said Iron Man. “She asked me to get them.” 

“I don’t feel--” Steve started, then looked down at the leather strap of his harness; felt the familiar weight of his shield on his back, that he’d missed in the past year, missed without realizing it. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. 

It didn’t take much effort to walk up to the pavilion, explain that he’d taken another job and needed to clear his things out. The security guard hardly believed he was the _actual_ Captain America, after all, and wished him luck. 

The office door was locked. Steve bent down, observing the lock to see if there was an easy way to jimmy it, then sighed, and slammed the door open with the shield. 

The satisfaction of swinging his shield again outweighed any reservations he had about breaking into an office. 

He snatched up the paperweight, which was displayed prominently on the desk, and then began rummaging through the drawers when he heard a echoing, metallic-sounding footstep in the hall. 

“Iro--” He started, but the shadow that darkened the door was larger than Iron Man, heavier, more roughly-made. 

The man in armor held up a silver pen. “Looking for this?” 

Steve took a step back. “What the hell is so important about a _pen_?” he asked. 

This armor didn’t mask the pilot’s voice-- it was clearly Obie in the suit , his voice rich and deep and booming as ever, if a little hollow from the echo the helmet created. “Didn’t she tell you?” asked Obie. “Breaking and entering, really, Private Rogers? Over a _pen_? For a girl who won’t give you the honest truth?” 

“It’s her father’s,” Steve said. He took a step back. “Like you said, it’s a _pen_. I was just trying to do the kid a favor.” 

“Captain America,” Obie said, from inside the suit, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So _eager_ to help out. So _valiant_ in the line of fire. You were ready to get yourself killed for a lot of housewives and snotty kids.”

“Well, believe it or not,” Steve said. “Those housewives and snotty kids sort of make up America. I’d do it again.” 

Slowly, carefully, he placed himself behind Obie’s desk, unhooked the shield from its harness-- and then, once it was free, brought it about to his front as quickly as he could, the motion no more than the blink of an eye. 

“I’m afraid you won’t have the chance,” said Obie. 

He opened fire. The bullets came in a spray, not unlike Elektro, but this time, the guns were powered by a man, a man who could see and hear and aim and judge. Steve kneeled down low, put his body behind the shield, cringed as the bullets clanged off its surface. 

He had to run out of ammo sooner or later, Steve thought. Maybe it would be sooner. 

Obie was coming toward him. The shield defense at a distance was one thing, but as the armor came closer, the impact was sharper, and he knew Obie could make a swipe at the shield as soon as he was within range. 

He gritted his teeth, waited for one volley of bullets to end before he rose to his full height and whipped the shield at the armor’s torso, where the guns were positioned.

Metal screeched and sparked as it clanged against metal, Obie in the armor stumbled backward, and Steve scrambled to snatch his shield back up. 

With the shield on his right arm, guarding him from the gun, he hit the armor again, before a tight, metal hand clapped onto his shoulder. It squeezed, hard, too hard, forcing him to drop the paperweight as it lifted him into the air.

He aimed a kick at the armor’s jaw. 

The trouble with hand to hand combat with a man in a metal shell was that very little had any impact on it. His hits connected; Obie would react. 

“This is a terrible waste, Captain,” said Obie. “Bringing you back to life just to have to kill you again.” 

There was a sudden jolt to his shoulder-- an electrical shock, that rattled his skull and burned his skin. He cried out in spite of himself and slammed the shield into the metal arm. It gave, slightly-- the joints weren’t as perfect as Iron Man’s, Steve noticed, so he hammered it again. 

Again, he was met with a shock. He was beginning to feel dizzy, lightheaded, when the room was filled with a tremendous burst of light. 

Obie released him. He fell to the floor, his shoulder in keen, sharp agony. 

“I was wondering when you’d turn up,” Obie said, turning to the metal-clad figure in the doorway. 

Steve crept forward, grabbing for one of Obie’s ankles. Obie kicked back, a metal boot slamming Steve in the face. 

“I can tie you to Elektro,” said Iron Man. “Stane Industries’ technological fingerprints are all over those guns.”

“Impossible,” said Obie. “They’re like nothing we’ve ever built before.” 

“That’s Stark’s circuitboard design; it has the Stark signature in the transistors.” 

Obie chuckled. “Then wouldn’t it implicate _Annie_?” 

“The design she stopped leaving when you stole the company out from under her,” Iron Man retorted. “The one you-- and only you-- have been using since--”

Iron Man cried out as Obie lay a hand on his chest, firing an electrical charge directly into the armor. He reached for Obie’s other hand, slamming the gauntlet into the desk once, twice, six, seven times, until the pen fell away. 

Steve lunged for it as it rolled off the desk. He caught it, frowned at it for a moment, slid it into his pocket. It looked like a perfectly ordinary, if expensive, pen. 

Iron Man threw an elbow at Obie, and the two men in their suits seemed locked in a battle that far outclassed Steve, even with his shield, as they dealt in bashing blows and pure electricity. 

Finally, Iron Man managed to wrestle the larger man-- well, the larger armor, at least-- to the floor, and Steve let himself breathe out in relief. He fumbled on the floor for the paperweight.

But Obie seemed calm-- too calm, and the faceplate on his helmet opened with a hiss. “Do it,” he said, a sneer on his face. “Kill me.” 

Iron Man straightened up. “You know I won’t. But I am calling the cops. Come on, Steve,” he said, holding a hand out. “Gimme the pen.” 

Steve tossed the pen through the air, and it arced beautifully, gleaming as it spun through the air, and landed with a satisfying clink in Iron Man’s hand. 

Iron Man nodded to Steve. “Let’s go,” he said.

Obie reached up, gripped Iron Man’s chest, and Iron Man gasped, as Obie fired shock after shock into the man’s heart. Iron Man screamed-- the scream, filtered through the voice scrambler, was one of the most terrifying sounds Steve had ever heard; there was nothing he could remotely compare it to: guttural and inhuman. 

Steve lunged forward, about to bring the shield down on Obie’s skull when he saw a streak of silver, and heard a choking sound, and then inhaled sharply as he saw the stream of dark blood bubbling up from Obie’s throat. 

Iron Man was silent, gasping, holding the blood-soaked pen aloft. “I need Rhodey,” Iron Man said. “Get Rhodey. And the cops.”

*****1942****

The lab foreman didn’t have any leads; the project that his team had been working on was something innocuous to do with getting better results for bigger, juicier tomatoes in victory gardens. He showed Steve some of his samples-- even in early spring, in his greenhouse, he’d been able to grow luscious, red tomatoes twice the size of Steve’s fist, large enough to cut widthwise and use as a slice of bread.

“What’s your trick?” Steve asked. 

“What do you know about genetics?” the scientist asked. 

Steve smiled at that. “A little too much, maybe.” 

“Well, then you know,” the scientist answered. “That genetics determine things like size, color...but there are ways to...alter the genetics of a weak plant. These ones have been introduced to a specific wavelength of radiation,” he explained. 

He pulled a shiny, green tomato off the vine, held it out to Steve. “Here,” he offered, as he adjusted his glasses. “Poke it, prod at it.”

Steve did as he was instructed, jamming a thumb into the side of the tomato. He pulled it away; the skin was still supple, shiny, flexible. There was no telltale indentation, no mark that he’d touched it. 

“So this combination, with the radiation, see, the tomato’s stronger, more robust. The ones at the lab were ones we were injecting with--” He smiled. “People always get scared when I say this, but, a virus, really.” 

“A virus?” Steve asked, the base of his neck tingling. “That reorders its genes?” 

“Exactly,” said the scientist. 

“That’s...exactly what I needed to know,” Steve said. “Thanks, Doctor Banner. Can I, uh…” He tossed the tomato in the air. “Keep this?”

“Free of charge,” said Doctor Banner, as he waved Steve off. 

Steve got in a cab, but when he hit Manhattan, the traffic was so slow-going, that halfway home, he paid the cabbie, got out, and limped along the street, tossing his tomato in the air like a baseball. 

Walking west from the Queensboro Bridge, the traffic grew thicker, uglier, until it became a dead standstill, cars honking, drivers shouting. 

That was when Steve caught a whiff of smoke-- noxious, chemical burning, the smell of burning gasoline and rubber, not the smoke of roasting nuts. He hobbled toward the source of the smell, as fast as he could go-- East until he hit the Park and Grand Army Plaza. 

And there, right on the plaza, a circle of burning cars were arrayed around the Sherman Monument, piles of debris smoking on the ground like sacrifices to the gilded statues of General William Tecumseh Sherman and the Lady Peace, he on his horse, she with her hand held aloft, fingers pointing skyward.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat; he couldn’t walk any faster, no matter how he worked the crutches. Part of him was relieved, that he wasn’t quite close enough, here, to see whether that burning debris included any human bodies. 

He pushed himself on.

*****

When Happy drove the car up Fifth Avenue, Annie didn’t hesitate to put the suit on at the first sign of fire, tugging on her armor piece by piece behind the privacy of the tinted windows.

“Remember what Jarvis said,” Happy warned. “You can’t push it right now.” 

“I might not have a choice,” Annie answered, as she buckled the armor on over her nicely pressed blouse, her wool skirt, her sleek silk stockings. “If anybody’s in danger--” 

“We do have a Fire Department, Annie,” Happy reminded her. 

“I know we do,” Annie said, and she kissed him on the cheek. “And you’re a dear, but I’m better than them.” 

She popped on her helmet, and then, as an afterthought, handed him a small vial, containing just a few drops of a pearlescent blue liquid. “Keep that safe for me, will you, Hap?” she asked. 

He put it in his cigarette case. “Will do, Missy,” he said, with a wink. “Be safe out there.” 

Annie engaged her boots, rising up into the air as she flew over the honking cars to survey the wreckage. She hissed out through her teeth, shaking her head as she felt a sharp pang of regret jab at her chest. “Okay,” she said to herself, putting on speed. “We’ve got to stop this.” 

She flew closer, trying to keep herself from counting the bodies. She was looking for the perpetrator; she had to find him before he acted again. 

And then she went cold; her chest flooding with dread, as she saw the tall, blond figure on crutches bending over a victim. 

The woman was badly burned, but, it seemed, alive, and Steve was looking left and right for assistance. 

“STEVE!” Annie shouted. 

Steve looked up, his expression one of relief, a bright smile greeting her. “IRON MAN!” he shouted back, waving up. “I need to get this lady into the hotel!” 

Annie looked from the woman to the entry to the Plaza Hotel, several yards away. “Got it,” she said, and she swooped down and lifted the woman, gently, so as not to disturb the burns, carrying her toward the hotel. 

She left the woman with a very distraught bellhop. The hotel guests were all cowering in the lobby; a few asked if it was safe to go out, as the concierge dialed the hospital. 

Police sirens were blaring outside; fire sirens, too. Annie turned to go, tossing a salute over her shoulder before taking off back up into the air. 

And when she returned, Steve was fending off a stream of flames coming from a man’s mouth with his shield in one hand, and a shiny, round, green thing in the other. 

He threw the green thing. It splatted on the other man’s face, breaking open, covering him in slime and tiny white seeds. 

Annie had to stop herself from laughing as she descended, putting herself in between the two men. “Steve!” she shouted. “Get the hell out of here before you break another limb!” 

“I’ve got three more!” Steve shouted back. 

Annie wasted no more time. She stopped, a few feet off the ground, and fired a repulsor charge at the attacker. He fell to the ground from the force of the blast, but was immediately back up on his feet, and peeled off his wool coat to reveal a Nazi uniform beneath.

There were a few shouts from onlookers; Annie thought she heard a pistol fire, and then, one driver revved his engine, drove up onto the sidewalk, aiming his car at the man. 

The man put a hand out, grinning. When the car struck, it smashed from the impact, ground to a halt, a deep indentation in the hood. 

The man who had been hit by the car, however, was unhurt. He punched through the windshield, and in a single, brutal motion, twisted the man’s neck. 

Steve yelled. Annie blasted him again, and he fell flat against the shattered windshield. She had to think; there must be something that would stop him. 

Cops were arriving on foot now, and Annie shook her head in horror: she knew the man she was fighting would kill them all, given the chance. But he was advancing on her, now; he hadn’t seen the cops. They were behind him, and she could keep it that way, if she lured him closer.

The sensor on the motor in her chest beeped twice, signifying that she was down to thirty-three percent power. It was enough, she told herself; she’d been in worse situations with less. 

She flew backward, tauntingly. He raced for her, leapt, caught onto her boot. She fired the jet, blasting him in the face with flames. She watched as the heat twisted his flesh, and he dropped his hold on her, but instantly, his skin began to heal itself, as if the damage had all been a mirage. 

Behind him, the cops were arranging themselves in a line, looking for all the world as if they were getting ready to open fire. 

And then there was Steve, approaching the police officers on his crutches, speaking calmly at first, and then with more colorful gestures, more angrily, more animated, as the police looked at him as if he were out of his mind. 

Annie blasted at the man again, as he wrenched a lamppost free. She’d thought Steve was strong, but this-- this was entirely too much, to see a man singlehandedly pull an iron pole from the ground and swing it as if it were made of cardboard. He swiped her helmet; the lamppost made a clanging sound that echoed dizzyingly, and she was thrust to the side. She lost her balance and skidded to a stop on the cobblestones. 

He stepped forward, battered her chest with the lamppost, and her motor beeped again. That wasn’t good; she’d dropped to twenty-five percent too quickly. 

Her armor absorbed most of the shock; she stumbled to her feet and let off another repulsor blast, but she needed to find a new strategy; this wasn’t working. 

And then another figure appeared: a woman. Maya. 

Maya raced up to the wreckage, and now, she, too, was arguing with the police officers, pointing to the man with the lamppost. 

Now Maya and _Steve_ were arguing; Annie swore under her breath.

A shot rang out; one of the police officers had apparently seized the opportunity, and now her opponent turned, stalking toward the poor man, who was still holding his gun up, even as Annie saw the gunshot wound vanish before her eyes. 

She took the opportunity to aim another blast at the man’s back; she knew it wouldn’t stop him, but it would slow him down, maybe give the police officer a chance to run. 

She beeped. Twenty percent. 

The repulsor blast hit just as the man turned away from the police officer, advancing toward Maya, instead.

“You!” he shouted. 

Maya looked at him; her forehead creased, her mouth in a tight grimace. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Are you mad?” 

“You did this to me!” he shouted, and he stomped his foot down against the ground, shattering the cobblestones he hit. “You never told me--”

“What?” Annie said, and she stepped closer. Steve cautiously backed up, putting himself between the assailant and the police officers. 

“She gave me money,” the man said, pointing at Maya. 

“I never--” Maya replied, her voice shaking, her hands up in the air. 

“She paid me, gave me a list of targets-- she never said it would…” He looked down at his own hands, as if in horror. “Make me _inhuman_.” 

“You _gave_ him Extremis?” Annie demanded. “You-- you told me it wasn’t safe.” 

“It’s _not_ ,” Maya said with a snarl. “But no one would listen; we had to prove it. It...I told you, Annie; I told you about the aggressive streak…Mallen,” she said to the man. “Mallen, you don’t have to do this; you don’t have to kill anyone else. You’ve proven everythi--”

He roared at her, unleashing flames that flickered blue and gold as they threw her backward.

Annie started forward; fired her repulsor again-- but Steve threw himself between Maya and the flames, the shield blocking most of them before he landed, panting, on the cobblestones, his broken leg twisted to the side in a way that made Annie wince to look at. 

But Maya, crumpled on the ground, her hair and clothing a charred smudge, tried to pick herself up, falling to the ground twice before she managed to make it to her knees. 

Now, as the repulsor blast hit, Mallen-- Annie supposed that must be his name-- turned for her.

There was another beep. Fifteen. She could make it; she could do this. Happy kept a spare generator in the car. 

Steve pulled himself up, reached for his crutch with one hand, and then for Maya with the other, limping her over to where the police officers were now standing back with awestruck expressions. Annie couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit irritated that she’d become commonplace, but that a man who could blow a little hot air had gotten their attention. 

He tossed his lamppost bludgeon aside, and ran at her, using his head as a battering ram. She tripped and fell backward, even as she landed a punch to his skull. But now she was pinned, at very close range, and the wicked gleam in his eye told her what he would do next, because he had come to the same conclusion she had.

He put his mouth to the armor and blew. 

There was heat everywhere, absolutely unbearable heat running through the suit, scorching her skin, and she gritted her teeth, willing herself not to scream, not to know how much pain she was in. She thrust her palm against the side of his head, directed a shock to his temple. He shot back with an involuntary jolt.

And again, a beep. Ten. She might have one more shot left in her, other than that--

She sucked in a breath, and, while Mallen was recovering, fired her jets to put her back in the air. That might take another percentage of her power, maybe two, she’d be at eight or nine now. She hovered just above him, waiting; she couldn’t let him turn back on anyone else, couldn’t let him kill someone unarmed...and as far as she was concerned, a cop with a tiny pistol was unarmed compared to this man. 

“Maya,” she murmured to herself. “This was stupid. So stupid.” 

She thought she should probably tell herself she was being stupid, too, but that could wait till later. Just now, Mallen was rushing her, catching onto her feet. She couldn’t-- she needed a moment to recover. She fired her jets again-- that would be seven percent, maybe six-- and shot further up. 

Mallen kept his grip and now she was fifteen feet in the air, maybe on even footing with General Sherman, if she looked over at him now. He was digging his fingers into her boot, pulling himself up; in a few moments, he wouldn’t be dangling anymore. She could shake him off, certainly, but all he’d do was hit the pavement, and she was fairly certain that would do nothing to him. 

She glanced over at the statue. 

And then at the ground.

And then at the statue again, and she fired her jets, twice, propelled herself up as high as she dared as the sharp, steady beep sounded in her ear, warning that she only had three percent power left to keep her heart pumping. 

Her head was getting light; she could feel that she was almost drained of power; it was becoming an effort to keep her eyes open. Mallen was still hanging onto her by her right ankle. 

She aimed her left boot and her right gauntlet at Mallen’s hand, and fired them both at once.

He fell, down, and she watched as his body careened, out of control, toward the statue. 

There was a loud splat, and then a crack, and she watched the gilded hand of Lady Peace thrust out of his chest, gore splattered on all of her fingers as they still pointed skyward. 

Then Annie’s eyes closed, and she started to fall, as the beeping faded away.

She tried to fall back. She supposed the armor would probably protect her from similar impalement.

She was vaguely aware of the sharp impact to her body as she hit the cobblestones, of footfalls on the ground, of the familiar click, hiss, and scrape of her faceplate as someone lifted it away, and a familiar voice crying out.

“ _Annie_?” Steve said. “Somebody-- Happy! Get the generator!” 

She felt hands on the armor, clicking open the releases. 

“Annie,” Steve murmured. “You stu-- please don’t-- please-- I l--” 

She wanted to tell him she’d be alright, but her eyes wouldn’t open, let alone her mouth, and she supposed she could do that later. Anyway, she was about ninety-five percent certain she knew what that last thing he’d tried to say would have been, and she could content herself with that.

*****1939*****

The police had been through everything at the Stane pavilion, Steve had answered the same questions a million times over, and Iron Man had been able to provide not only a direct paper trail from Obie to the Westinghouse fiasco, but also to some less-than-savory business accounts with the Reich.

Steve was sitting in a chair on the pavilion mainstage, the same chair he sat in during Obie’s presentation-- that morning? Could it possibly have been that morning? It seemed much too long ago now. 

Iron Man made his way out of interrogation. Steve wondered if the police made Iron Man remove his armor, or if he was allowed to be questioned just like that. Either way, Iron Man was still fully-armored, and Steve got to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, at Iron Man’s approach.

“Ready to go?” Steve asked. 

Iron Man nodded. “It’s been a...long day, to say the least,” he said. “I’m going back to the airship. You…” 

Iron Man held out a small, zipped bag made of black satin. “Will you take these to Annie?” 

Steve didn’t need to open the bag to know what was in it. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, I can do that.” 

He took a cab, Iron Man assuring him that Annie would pay for it on his arrival, and sure enough, she met him at the door with money for the cab fare. She looked exhausted, maybe even worse for wear than he did, and he supposed it must be a side effect of her condition. 

“Wanna come in?” Annie asked, holding the door open. “Everything you’ve been through today, you deserve a drink.” 

Steve smiled. “I can’t get drunk,” he told her. 

“Then you deserve five or six drinks,” Annie assured him. She led him inside, to a study lined with bookcases, a sofa at one end, and she motioned for him to sit. “Iron Man told me everything; I’m so…” Her expression became grim as she poured two glasses of scotch. “I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t think it would come to that.” 

Steve sat, and accepted the drink, and he looked up at her. She stood, watching him with a forlorn expression, and he realized that Obie had been, all things considered, the only family she’d had. 

He held out the bag. “Iron Man asked me to bring you this.” 

She took it, and though she smiled, it was one of those small, sad smiles, the kind reserved for bright spots in the midst of tragedy, and she clutched the bag to her chest for a moment before she opened it up. 

Now she sat down, setting the moon-shaped paperweight in her lap. She took out the pen-- Steve was pleased to see that Iron Man had somehow gotten it thoroughly clean, though he wondered if he’d told Annie exactly what the pen had been through that night. 

Annie held the pen in both hands with a sort of reverence, shut her eyes and pressed it to her lips as if it were a holy object.

Steve watched, quietly, and waited for her to open her eyes again. 

“So,” he said. “Is anyone gonna tell me, what’s the big deal with that pen?” 

Annie smiled, a little shyly, and glanced away. Then she took the paperweight and turned it, so that Steve could see that one of the craters in the sculpt went deep, deep enough to hold, well, a pen. She put the pen into its slot, and Steve wondered at how it looked like a silver rocket embedded in the moon’s surface. 

She twisted the pen, and pulled it back out-- but only half of its casing came free. She tipped it into her palm. Out slid a slender, folded piece of paper, and a tiny vial of a clear, iridescent fluid. “This is,” she said. “This is the big deal.” 

“What’s that?” Steve asked, but something quivered in his chest, and he had a feeling he already knew. 

She held it up; raising it to the light, where rainbows refracted off of it as if it were a prism.

“This is...it’s what made you,” she said. “It’s the Project Rebirth serum. And now I think I know someone who can use this to fix my heart.”

*****1942****

"Annie!" Steve cried, gathering her up into his arms. "Happy, the generator, quick--"

Happy hauled the generator from the car, dropping it to the ground as Steve pried Annie's armor off of her. She was limp, lifeless, much worse than she been the night before. 

Beneath the suit, she was wearing a pretty, crisp, white blouse. He but his lip as he unfastened the buttons, his hands trembling, this whole thing a grotesque recreation of the previous night. 

Her skin was pale beneath the blouse, ashen and nearly translucent, blue veins contrasting darkly. The steel plate was fitted into her ribcage where her left breast should have been, raw pinkish scar tissue around the edges. He put a hand to it-- the metal was warm, smooth, and he pressed his palm against it.

"Wake up," he whispered.

Of course, she didn’t. 

“You need help with that?” Happy asked, readying the cables. “It’s the key, around her neck. Just... “ 

“Yeah,” Steve said, swallowing roughly, trying to keep his hands from shaking as he fumbled for the key. The plate popped open; he lifted it, and frowned at the coils, the circuit, the wires beneath. There was some kind of crusty, liquid substance seeping out over the mechanism; it smelled like rust and chemicals, and Steve wiped some of it away. 

“Is-- is this--” 

“Sonofabitch,” said Happy. “No, that’s-- hell, it looks like her battery’s exploded; that’s not--” 

Steve tried not to pay attention to the fact that Happy’s face was draining of all color. He clutched Annie to him, pulled the rest of her helmet away, found her pulse and kept his fingers on it, feeling it weakly, so weakly, so slowly beat out a wavering rhythm.

“I’m calling Jarvis,” Happy said. “He’ll--he’ll know what to--” But the way his voice faltered, Steve wasn’t so sure. 

“You--” he said, looking up at Maya, who was standing, wrapped in a blanket from the car, a bright burn running up the side of her face, her hair completely burned away from half of her scalp. She looked shell-shocked, her eyes were vacant. 

Steve wanted to shout at her, threaten her, accuse her of doing this, of hurting the person-- well, the two people he cared about most in the world, not that he had realized they were only _one_ person, though he mentally kicked himself, because he should, he should have seen this. 

Instead he took a breath, holding Annie jealously to his chest. “You, can you-- is there anything you can do for her? This is-- this is what you do, healing, right?” 

Maya shook her head, looking around like she wasn’t sure where she was. “I don’t,” she said. “Annie destroyed it all. She went into the lab and smashed all the remaining vials...she said nobody should use it…there isn’t any left.”

Happy looked up. “Any what left?” he asked, drawing something from his pocket. “Vials of what?” 

He held up a tiny glass vial containing a few drops of a blue fluid that danced with rainbows. 

“That,” Maya said. “That’s it.” 

“Can you--” Steve started to ask, but Maya stepped away. 

“You saw what it _does_ , Captain Rogers,” she answered, shaking her head, the last wisps of her hair catching in the breeze. 

“It’s _Private_ ,” Steve corrected, the reflex making him wince in contrast with the gravity of the situation.

Maya didn’t seem to care. “Mallen wasn’t like that before the Extremis; he didn’t--” She frowned at the vial. “No, wait,” she said, holding a hand out. “Let me see that; it’s not...it’s not right…” 

Happy looked to Steve, who hesitated, hoping this was the right call. He nodded, and Happy got to his feet, passing the vial to Maya. 

Maya frowned, tipped the vial from one side to the other, watched the droplets roll along the inner surface of the glass. “Something’s different about this,” she said. “This is one of my vials, but she changed it; she--” 

“It’s got to be worth a _try_ , isn’t it?” Steve asked plaintively. He brushed his fingers through Annie’s hair, rested his cheek against the top of her head. “She can’t die. She-- it has to work; we have to make it work.” 

Maya’s hands were shaking; she looked down at the vial. “Even if I knew what it would do…she altered it; I don’t know...I need a way to inject it.”

Happy gave her an incredibly dry look, and coughed into his fist. “This is Annie Stark we’re talking about, Toots. She’s got an entire hospital in her car.” 

They moved Annie to the back seat of the car, lay her out as flat as they could, and Steve stripped away the rest of the armor while Maya readied the dose, all the while listing her objections. 

Steve felt cold, all over. He sat on the pavement outside the car, the door open, so that he could keep a hand on her shoulder. 

Happy walked over, hands in his pockets, and dropped down to crouch beside him. “Rhodey and Jarvis are on their way,” he said. “Pepper’s sending the cops over to FuturePharm.” 

Maya sucked in a breath. “None of my employees had anything to do with this,” she said, the red burn on the side of her face standing out, bright and angry as the rest of her went white. “It was all me. And I’d do it again.” 

“Yeah?” Steve asked her. “I hate to break it to you, Miss Hansen, but you sound a hell of a lot like Obie right now.” 

“He was trying to destroy his _competition_ ,” Maya snapped. “I’m trying to make sure no one gets hurt.” 

Steve’s chest went tight. 

“Yeah, well, a fat lot of good you did with that,” Happy said. 

Steve looked back to Annie. “She--” 

He choked on his words before he could say anymore. “You think she’d want us to do this?” he asked. 

“I think if you gave her the options of being the subject of an ethically questionable science experiment or death,” Happy answered. “I figure she’d choose the one she’s done about a million times.” 

Steve wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t. 

Maya walked over, still trembling, holding a hypodermic needle in one hand, the tip glinting in the sun. “I can’t…” she said. “I can’t get my hands still enough; I don’t think I can--I’ll miss the vein...”

“Yep,” Happy said. “I can see that. Hand it over.” 

He held up a hand for the needle. 

“Are you--” Maya tugged the needle closer to her body. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Like I said,” Happy replied, waggling his fingers. “I work for Annie Stark. What do you think?” 

Steve watched Happy take the needle, and wished for a moment that he could be that confident, but then, he wouldn’t have been able to answer that question honestly. 

“It’s going to be ugly,” Maya warned. “When it happens. You...you’ll think she’s dying.” 

Steve steeled himself while Happy found a vein. Happy punctured Annie’s skin with the needle, and Steve realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out, slowly, and Happy looked up at him. 

“You ready for this, Cap?” Happy asked. 

“Y-- no,” Steve said. He bent his head, kissed Annie on the brow. “Now I am.” 

Happy pushed down on the plunger. Steve felt his heart pound like it might escape from his chest. 

And then Annie’s eyes blinked open. 

“Annie?” Steve tried, quietly, resting a hand on her cheek. Something had to be wrong; it couldn’t possibly work so quickly. 

Annie screamed. The sound was deafening, blood-curdling, and then blood began seeping from her eyesockets, from her nose. Steve’s breath caught in his throat; he turned to Maya, who stood behind him, impassive.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, eerily calm. “It’s working. That’s what it does; it’s...it’s working. But you might want to...step away…” 

Steve shook his head, kept his fingers against Annie’s cheek as his insides twisted and tightened with the sounds of her screams. 

But then her skin began to slough off, and first it was just the outer layer, dead skin flaking where his fingers touched it, but it kept on, until she was pink, shiny, too new. And then the blood spilled from her pores, welling up, coating the surface of her body, creeping into the mechanism that powered her heart. 

Steve pulled his hand away. The blood that covered her swirled with colors, prismatic, like the liquid from the vial, and began to harden into some kind of shell. 

He looked back to Maya again, and this time she nodded. “Normal,” she said. “That’s normal. You-- you can touch her.” 

When Steve turned to face Annie again, there was nothing left of her but a bluish-black, glistening shape that vaguely resembled a human body. 

He pressed a finger to it; it was hard but slightly flexible, like a nut or a seed pod. 

“She’ll be alright?” he asked. This time, he didn’t look back.

“I can’t say for sure,” answered Maya. “I...think so.” 

Finally, with that knowledge, Steve finally let himself crumple, keeping a hand on the Annie-shaped pod as he wept, silently and hard.

*****

The first thing Annie noticed when she woke up was that she was ravenous.

“I could eat a horse,” she announced. 

She looked around, disoriented. It was night; everything was black. She reached up to rub at her eyes, but her hand was stuck, still, as if it were behind held in place by something hard. She tried the other hand, and it knocked up against a smooth, solid surface. 

“What--” she muttered, frustrated, but she could feel a hint of worry creeping into the back of her head. She was trapped. She tried to think back, think back to the last thing that happened; she remembered spattering blood on golden fingers. She remembered falling. She remembered her battery draining, and Steve’s voice shouting frantically above her, and then nothing. And now she was trapped in...something. 

She jabbed her elbow out-- it hit something, and there was a loud noise, a crack and a tear, and suddenly, there was a slash of light coming through the spot where her elbow had hit. 

She twisted her arm, jamming her fingers into the hole, and ripped upward. More light. More air. She saw a hint of wallpaper: beige, printed with ropes of dusty pink roses. 

And then there was a voice. Muffled, so she couldn’t make out the words, but a hand found its way into the tear, pulling it back, and the light that flooded the shell was too much; it blinded her, and she had to shut her eyes against it. 

“Annie?” Steve asked. 

It _was_ Steve, even if she couldn’t see him, and the next moment, she felt his hands on her, and there was another ripping sound, and she was free, curled up in his arms like a child. 

She squinted, and blinked, and looked down. There was the torn remains of something that looked like a shiny beetle carapace, tucked under her grandmother’s quilt. 

“What-- what _is_ that?” she asked. She expected her voice to be rough, but it wasn’t; it was smooth and clear and bright. 

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted. “Some kind of cocoon, or shell, or-- it...when the Extremis...”

It _was_ the Extremis, then, Annie thought to herself, and she mentally thanked Happy a million times over. She would thank him in person, later, she thought. Now, she looked at the odd husk in the bed, and shivered, wondering exactly what else the Extremis had accomplished.

“You tucked me in? You tucked _that_ in?" 

He ignored her question, and instead cradled her to his chest, bumped his forehead against hers.

She lifted her head and kissed him, and then nuzzled her head beneath his chin. 

It took her a few more moments to realize that she was completely naked. She wasn’t sure _Steve_ had paid much attention to that, so she supposed it wasn’t causing any problems. 

“You’re okay?” he asked, softly, whispering into her ear. “You’re-- how do you feel?” 

She swallowed, and took stock, feeling for her usual aches and pains, the shortness of breath, the ache in her chest...and there was nothing. Not even the twitch and soft buzz of the motor that meant it was running properly, not the pressure of metal against her lungs when she breathed. 

She pushed herself away from Steve, just a few inches, and looked down at her chest.

There was nothing. No steel, no circuits, no resistors, no magnets. Nothing. Just flesh, just an ordinary, human breast, with an ordinary, human nipple. 

She poked at it, and then laughed, and poked at it again, and then clasped her hand to it, and felt a heartbeat-- a normal, steady, even heartbeat, and suddenly she was crying, uncontrollably, tears streaming down her cheeks and dripping off her chin, and pooling in the space between her _two ordinary, human breasts_. 

“Good,” she said, as she choked back a sob. She wrapped her arms around Steve’s shoulders, hesitated for a moment, and then decided that since she was paying his salary, if she ruined his shirt, she could buy him a new one, and buried her face against his shoulder, hugging him tightly. “I’m actually _good_.” 

Steve knocked the chunks of carapace out of the bed, and sat down on top of the quilt, still holding her in his arms, rubbing her back until she finished crying. “I was worried,” he said. “I--” 

And then realization struck Annie, cold and hard. “I didn’t tell you,” she said. 

“No,” Steve answered. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I meant to,” Annie said. “Maybe four or five times, I meant to, but I could never quite…”

He kissed her forehead. "Don't do that to me," he said, in a stern tone. "I would have lost you both."

She prodded at him. "You wouldn't have lost either of us," she said. "The Extremis worked." 

"Hypothetically," Steve said. "I could have. Any other secrets?" He asked. "You're not the Midnight Racer, too? Or Batman?"

"I'm not Batman," Annie answered him grimly. She shook her head. "No other secrets. I've told you everything."

She frowned. "Except...maybe..." She held out an arm, inspecting her forearm, as she concentrated hard.

A glimmering gold mesh began to spread over her skin, solid yet malleable when she pressed a finger against it. She let it cover her, wrist to elbow, turning her arm to let it flicker in the light, before willing it away, and it slowly vanished, leaving her smooth, unscarred skin again.

"What's that?" Steve asked,frowning. "How did you..."

A tickle of glee ran of Annie's spine.

"Extremis," Annie answered with a grin. "I improved it."

**Author's Note:**

> All of the World's Fair exhibits in this story are real, apart from Obie's presentation which is loosely based on a number of eugenics presentations promoted at the 1939 World's Fair.
> 
> Videos:  
> [Elektro the Moto-Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AuyTRbj8QSA) from the Westinghouse presentation.  
> [To New Horizons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cRoaPLvQx0), the film presentation of Futurama, the General Motors exhibit Annie and Maya see.  
> [The Bell Labs Voder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5hyI_dM5cGo), demonstrated at the AT&T Pavilion.  
> [Parachute Jump Thrill Ride](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U82t49aTgHw) Annie and Steve rode on.  
> [The Sun Worshippers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EX4WTBEmqw) (NSFW) Annie and Maya watched playing croquet.
> 
>  
> 
> [Blog post about the Bendix Lama Temple Girlie Show.](http://gorillasdontblog.blogspot.com/2013/08/girlie-show-1940-new-york-worlds-fair.html) (mildly NSFW-- photoshopped blur applied to photos)


End file.
